Restoring Balance
by Syvia
Summary: Alternate Universe- Begins after SR2. Involves original characters and members of Janos' race. Kain and Vorador seek the last hope of saving Nosgoth while Raziel must fend for himself against what remains of the Circle of Nine.
1. Prologue The Beginning and the End

Copyright © 2002 by Syvia (Aka Rebecca K. Friedrick). All Rights Reserved.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. 

Authors notes: I wanted to envision a happy ending for our characters. Granted- they have to fight to get to it... but don't we all? In this fic I'm going to address issues like these- Why must Janos Audron stay dead- for what purpose was his heart meant- and who exactly are the Hylden? But all in good time. ;-) 

This fic jumps from time period to time period. Part of it takes off somewhat right after the end of Soul Reaver 2. The three main time periods are going to be 1.) about 1600 years before the fall of the pillars, 2.) 500 years before the fall of the pillars- where we left Raziel after SR2, and 3.) 2000 years _after_ the fall of the pillars- the approximate time period that Raziel and Kain _left_ at the end of SR1.

Note- I've divided time into two categories based on the pillars destruction. 

B. C. - Before the Corruption

A. C. - After the Corruption

I've divided the state of the world into three categories, based on the state of its collapse.

The Living World - Nosgoth at the beginning of its existence.

The Sickened World - Nosgoth after the birth of Kain.

The Dying World- Nosgoth after the fall of Raziel.

*Syvia walks out into the white space of a waiting fan fic and smiles at the readers*

Hey everyone. Good to see all of you are still reading, and still interested. *sighs* My muse accosted me some time ago after my throes of agony about the bleak ending of Soul Reaver 2. Don't get me wrong- I _loved_ the ending, but I have to wonder; is Nosgoth _ever _going to be saved? So I started thinking how it would be possible to bring the world back to the thriving blue and green sphere that it used to be. I think I've found a way. The journey is long, and will include many interesting people and events before it is over. *smiles* Would you like to come with me? 

*Snaps fingers. Syvia disappears. Mist rolls across the white space. It clears slowly...*

Prologue

The Beginning and the End

__

Nosgoth ~ ? ~ ?

They stood there in the light of the four candles, still as statues. One of them toyed with a ceremonial knife. One pale hand was clasped around the handle, as the other traced light circles on the blade.

"Blood," the owner of those hands mused. "The beginning, as well as the end."

"A drop is all that is needed," another said. The second voice was respectful, but a bit impatient. That fact did not go unnoticed by the first speaker. 

"You seem as presumptuous as you ever were," the other murmured, highly amused. 

"Ah, but the trait is seen as _impudence_ in the young." Laughter followed that statement.

"As if you were _ever_ young."

A pregnant silence followed. 

"We all were once..." the second voice said. "Young. Innocent... for however brief a time it may have been."

The first voice grew sorrowful. "Indeed. Of all things lost, I believe I miss my innocence the most." There was a sigh and the glint of candlelight reflected by metal.

A single drop of blood fell through the silent air, shining red-black as gravity pulled it into the basin.

The Memory Pool was an impressive thing. Three feet high and two in diameter, it was a simple stone pillar rising from the floor of the cavern around it. Carvings wound round the edge of the bowl and down the Pool's stem, curving inward and back out in the shape of a goblet. The carvings continued out over the floor and up the walls, meeting again in the center of the ceiling. 

They were carvings of plants and animals; humans and vampires. Everything beautiful and ugly of the world was depicted in that small room. There were battles and scenes of peace. Creatures recognizable and indefinable locked in the most passionate embraces of love and hate. There were all manner of contrasts depicted in the carvings. And, on either side of the entryway, detailed engravings of demons and angels. 

The inside of the bowl was smooth, dark, depthless. It seemed that one could almost fall into the midnight blackness of the Memory Pool. 

The teardrop of onyx-encased ruby fell into the center of the water, creating ripples across the mirror-surface of the basin. The water clouded, turning greyish-white. The surface rippled again and a scene appeared in the Pool.

"The Passing Ceremony," the first voice breathed. "It begins there."


	2. The Curse of the Hylden

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. Zofia & Evike Audron, however, are my brain children. The first of several you will see. ;-) *pulls out Zofia and hugs the (un)life out of her* I'm so proud of her!!!!!!!! :-D

Authors notes: I wanted to envision a happy ending for our characters. Granted- they have to fight to get to it... but don't we all? In this fic I'm going to address issues like these- Why must Janos Audron stay dead- for what purpose was his heart meant- and who exactly are the Hylden? But all in good time. ;-) 

This fic jumps from time period to time period. Part of it takes off somewhat right after the end of Soul Reaver 2. The three main time periods are going to be 1.) about 1600 years before the fall of the pillars, 2.) 500 years before the fall of the pillars- where we left Raziel after SR2, and 3.) 2000 years _after_ the fall of the pillars- the approximate time period that Raziel and Kain _left_ at the end of SR1.

Note- I've divided time into two categories based on the pillars destruction. 

B. C. - Before the Corruption

A. C. - After the Corruption

I've divided the state of the world into three categories, based on the state of its collapse.

The Living World - Nosgoth at the beginning of its existence.

The Sickened World - Nosgoth after the birth of Kain.

The Dying World- Nosgoth after the fall of Raziel.

Additional Notes: *wiggles in her chair* I have to start off with Vorador! Heh heh heh, I _love_ Vorador. ^_^

Chapter 1

The Curse of The Hylden

__

Nosgoth ~ 1649 B. C. ~ The Living World 

The flames were blue. Vorador wondered idly about that. Could it have been that fire was as dangerous to the Ancients as it was to his kind, or was there some ceremonial purpose in the color of the fire? He stood in the darkness of an oak tree, out of sight of the Ancients. He did not feel as if he should be there, but his master was in mourning, and Vorador wished to offer what condolences he could. 

The young vampire narrowed his eyes at the scene. It was actually quite beautiful; the sapphire flames smoldering gently against the ruby sunset. The reversal of color was rather poetic. The deep blue of the fire reminded him of the sky above the land of his birth. Not that he could _truly _remember it. 

He recalled memories of being human, and although he had not been a vampire long -a mere three hundred years- he already recognized the change in his senses. The new acuity with which he saw, heard, smelt, touched, and tasted was beyond human comprehension. Taste. The vampiric condition brought new meaning to the word, and yet Vorador only cared to taste one thing- blood.

Blood; the beginning and the end, life and death. Blood was the reason he now was what he was, and the reason he and his master were here tonight.

/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\

\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/

In the time after the Great War between the Ancients and the Hylden, before recorded history, the victorious, raven-winged Ancients had found, to their horror, that they had been cursed. They could not explain it. One by one they would fall into a madness, driven by burning lungs and pounding hearts to find sustenance that they could not name; only sense, burning within the bodies of other creatures. They didn't understand what had happened; until two of the Ancients had fallen upon a deer in the woods, tearing the creature apart and drinking of the flowing red liquid that spouted from its broken body.

Blood. They were now creatures who drank blood. Creatures who's survival lay in taking the life-force of others. Ancients had once relied only on the life-force of the world to survive. The heat of the magma churning deep within the earth, the flow of rivers over stone, the force of the wind and the light of the sun. To require sustenance that damaged the giver, that was exhaustible, was abhorrent to them. 

Their disgust for this new means of survival had been great, but fear of the madness had been greater still. The Ancients had adjusted, albeit reluctantly, to the curse of their bloodlust. They raised their children to drink only as much blood as was needed to stay alive, and not as many children were born to the next generation.

Then came the time of exploration, when humans moved from their ancestral homes, and came in contact with the Ancients.

Vorador could remember, vaguely, his tribe. They had been hunters and gatherers who followed the herds that made up their primary food source. Vorador had been separated from his fellows, tracking a buck with a wounded leg. The creature had paused to drink from a stream. The young hunter had stopped, his only movement made to pull back his arrow, when he caught sight of something in the woods. 

Vorador froze, forgetting about the deer, forgetting about _everything_. The creature was tall, powerfully built with pale blue skin and wings like the nighttime sky. Faster than the hunter could see, it moved through the trees. The deer did not realize its danger until it was too late. The winged being viciously twisted the creature's head, his face frozen in an expression of divine anger. Vorador's bow and arrows dropped from limp hands as the angelic creature lowered two razor-like teeth into the corpse's neck and sucked at it greedily as a nursing babe.

He must have made some sound, for the creature's head snapped up, feverishly bright golden eyes staring straight into his own. It dropped the deer, standing in one quick, impossibly fluid motion, holding Vorador's eyes the entire time. The young hunter stood frozen as the winged being paced regally towards him, a terrible pain in its eyes. It stopped in front of him, raised a hand to Vorador's neck. He gasped; a soft, terrified sound, breaking the spell. The winged creature stopped, tensing as if it were gathering its will. It closed its eyes, clenched the taloned hand that hovered near Vorador's face. 

The pale lips opened slightly. Through his panic, the young hunter heard a single hissed command. "Run."

He didn't remember tearing through the forest, or the branches that whipped his face, leaving bloody gashes on his cheeks and forehead. He recalled the moment before death; the sound of enormous wings beating a path through the sky, the wind of their passing driving him to the ground hard enough to make him see stars. Then there was the sense of a body landing on ground beside him, a pair of vice-like hands dragging him from the ground as a weeping voice breathed, "Not fast enough." Then the pain. 

It felt almost as if the creature were ripping out his throat. Vorador gasped as he felt the blood being leeched from his body. It was agony. The creature's body jerked violently, burying the fangs deeper into Vorador's neck. The hunter could feel his legs go numb, his organs begin to slow down.

He slumped in the creature's grasp, losing consciousness. He had no profound thoughts, no regrets, no fears as his mind succumbed to the welcoming darkness. The pain ebbed and Vorador's body slowly released its hold on his soul.

Clarity flooded Janos' mind as the blood rushed through his body. With clarity came the realization of what he was doing. The Ancient drew back from his victim in horror, searching the dimming eyes for a sign of life when he knew there could be none. The human was dead. The pulse that had driven the young man's blood into his eager mouth was gone completely. 

Janos sank to his knees, laying the human on the ground. The Reaver Guardian covered his eyes with one pale hand, shaking with tears. The deer hadn't been enough. He had told the human to run, but the scent of blood, of _life_ so close by, and slipping out of his grasp, had been too much for him. Janos had gone after the human with the need to kill, to feed, and no force on earth could have kept the Ancient from his goal.

_The taste of his blood was bliss compared to the forest creatures,_ Janos realized. The thought brought on a wave of nausea almost as powerful as the pleasure had been. Janos breathed deeply, trying to calm himself, and looked again at the human. The bronze skin was slowly turning grey, eyes staring glassily up into the sky. He had destroyed an intelligent life to sustain his own. 

Self-hatred ate at Janos' soul, sending more bitter tears to course down his cheeks. He wiped a tear from his face and noticed their color. Red. Even his tears mocked his weakness. He had been unable to keep the bloodlust at bay, and he had killed. Janos reached out to touch the human, brokenly murmuring an apology. He touched one cooling arm, and noticed the fine tremor running through his hands. No, only _one _hand was shaking. He drew back from the human and the sensation was gone. He replaced his hand, and felt something. Something was there. 

The Ancient hurriedly placed both hands on the young man's shoulders and closed his eyes. A soul. A _human_ soul, leaving its former home. Janos reached out with his life-force, touching the soul, compelling it to stay, to taste his power. Perhaps he could bring the human back, fix this terrible mistake. The human's soul stopped, curious, and Janos wrapped it in his power, drawing it gently back into the vacated body. 

The soul absorbed part of Janos' power, strengthening itself in order to rejoin the body. It slipped into the young man, letting go of Janos. 

The Ancient watched as the human body mended itself. The throat wound closed with miraculous speed, leaving no scar. Relief flooded Janos' heart and mind, but lasted only a few seconds. The human groaned, revealing teeth that were different than they had been. The canines were longer, sharper. Janos let out a shaking breath as he felt his life-force reaching out to the human, recognizing the young man as one of his own people. The human opened his eyes and turned to Janos, regarding him curiously. His pupils were slit like a cat's, completely surrounded by greenish-gold irises.

"What have I done?" Janos whispered.

The soul hesitated, feeling a warm presence nearby. The presence came closer, and wrapped around it comfortingly. The soul went compliantly back into its former shelter. 

Vorador groaned and sat up. Without knowing how he was doing it, he reached out with his soul for the entity that had brought him back to the physical world. He found it and found acknowledgement of the action he had taken. He turned to the one who had killed and revived him. 

"What have I done?" the creature breathed.

Vorador only looked at the winged being and with one word, branded Janos Audron as the creator of the first vampire.

"Master."

/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\

\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/

Vorador shook himself out of his reverie as the flames burned down and finally faded. He watched the small group of Ancients disperse, walking a short distance away before launching themselves into the darkening sky.

The vampire strode forward, heading towards the two Ancients who had remained by the funeral pyre. 

One was Janos Audron, his dark head bowed in sorrow for his dead wife. The other, smaller in frame, and a bit shorter, was the living image of the one who had passed on. 

Zofia Audron was Janos and Evike's natural daughter. The Ancients, in centuries past, had been able to have children as humans did. Zofia was proof of this, and her birth had led the Ancients to a frightening idea, which turned into a horrifying theory.

It had not even been a year after Vorador was made that Evike had gotten pregnant. Zofia had been the first winged child born in over three hundred years. The Ancients looked at every possible reason _why_ Janos and Evike had succeeded where others had failed, and found only one possibly veritable reason for the phenomenon. Janos had drunk the blood of a human. The Ancients discarded the idea, fearful that it may be true. As other desperate couples turned to drinking the blood of humans as a possible aid to conception, they found their hypothesis to be correct. 

The Ancients were faced with two choices. They could give in to their enemies' curse, or watch their race die out completely. Evike had discovered a third option, and it seemed that many who felt the same way would be following her.

Zofia's wings shuddered continuously, betraying her emotions. Dark hair fell down the young Ancient's back, longer than her father's, blending with the shining ebony of her wings. As Vorador came closer, he could hear her weeping softly. She turned as he laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. Zofia's tears had marked trails of pale red on her cheeks. She looked up into Vorador's glowing eyes and lost the rest of her composure. Vorador opened his arms to the girl, cradled her gently against his chest as she cried. On some level, he could feel their pain.

Vorador and Janos were bound by shared power. They could sense each other, and were someone to kill Vorador, the act would weaken Janos's power. Thus, the Ancient was required to care for Vorador until the vampire was skilled enough to live on his own, whether Janos liked it or not. Janos had _not_ been required to treat Vorador as his natural son for all those centuries, and yet the young vampire saw him as such. 

Vorador and Zofia saw each other as brother and sister. They had grown up together, learned together, _hunted _together, since Zofia's earliest days. Although Vorador could remember human parents and siblings, these two beings were his true family.

So Vorador held Zofia tightly, understanding her pain, even though he did not share it. Evike had been kind to him, but Vorador was the symbol of her husband's weakness. A mistake. She had never been able to look at him without her eyes losing some of their glow. 

_May you find peace in the next realm, Evike. You never had any in this life. _Vorador sent the thought out into the night and found himself hoping she had heard him. Zofia's cries were quieting. Janos had turned to them, placing a gentle hand on his daughter's head; stroking her hair softly. Vorador's heart ached for her. For both of them. 

Blood had done this to the Ancients. 

Evike's morals had been too strict, her revulsion of the curse too great for her to survive. Janos stayed alive out of necessity. He could not pass on until another Reaver Guardian came to receive his burden. Zofia stayed alive because the curse was lighter on her generation than the preceding one. Where Janos needed to consume the blood of two large animals a day, Zofia needed only one. Her will was also stronger than Evike's had been, and while Janos and Evike could remember times in the past when the Ancients had lived without blood, Zofia had never known another type of existence. Drinking blood was natural, and necessary, but few Ancients shared her feelings, and she knew that fact.

"Something must be done," she whispered. "Something must be done or we all will die." Vorador and Janos looked at each other over the girl's head, exchanging worried glances. Zofia's tone was sorrowful, but veined with a desperate determination. "We must survive," she said, taking in a shuddering breath. _The Balance of Nosgoth depends upon it_, she added silently.


	3. “We walked right into their trap”

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. Zofia & Evike Audron, however, are my brain children. The first of several you will see, but not in this chapter. ;-)

Authors notes: So- what trap did the infamous Hylden put into action? _Why_ did Kain throw Raziel into the Abyss and destroy his firstborn's clan? Read on, dear friends, and find out. :-D It may not make complete sense at the end of _this_ chapter ;-) but it will before the end of the story. :-) 

FYI- I revised the prologue just a bit, having decided that the 'Looking Pool' was a stupid name. :-p

Oh and- *squeezes Kro, DHA, Crazydragon & bahumut to death for reviewing* Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou! If I spelled your names wrong- heh, I was reading it off the reviews, so it's not my fault. ^_^

Chapter 2

"We walked right into their trap..."

__

Nosgoth ~ 500 B. C. ~ The Living World

Mobius smiled, practically gliding down the spiraling staircase that led into the depths of the Sarafan Stronghold. Down it plunged- so far into the earth that many whispered it led right into the fiery caverns of the Unspoken's bedchamber. Not that any of them had enough _courage _to try and discover where it went, not that they could have entered the door at the bottom anyway.

_Foolish_ _novices, _Mobius thought, smirking. His thoughts drifted to a time the Sarafan Generals had berated their troops for spreading rumors of demon worship within the ranks of the soldiers. _How amazed they would have been to know the corruption was much higher up._

Mobius smirked, then grimaced, remembering the losses they had suffered just moments ago, and who had caused them. _Arrogant little parasite, _he raged inwardly. _Blue-fleshed _thing_ and that blood-sucking master of his. _Raziel hadn't been absorbed by the Reaver after all; saved by Kain at the last minute. This would cause setbacks.

Mobius finally came to the bottom step, the enormous stone doors responding to the magic of his staff. The enormous crystal flared with light. Mobius strode forward as the doors opened and walked into the room.

Like the great Cathedral in Avernus, this chamber was much older than the building above it. Mobius was the only one aware of its existence, as it should be. The Time Streamer smirked at the thought of what the Sarafan would say, had they been aware of the Unholy chapel beneath their feet. The room was dedicated to demon Hash'ak'gik, known by many as the Unspoken.

The Guardian of Time looked about with his seemingly blind eyes, once again marveling at the gory beauty of the room. It resembled one of the famed Blood Fountains of Nosgoth, but on a much grander scale. Reddish-black liquid spouted from the horned skulls of demons, the smell of blood engulfed any who entered. 

Throughout the room, there was an overwhelming sense of power; the feeling of several _beings _hovering in the thick-smelling air. Most of them seemed dormant, benign, but the sheer power of the spirits was far more than a normal human could stand. Mobius admitted that he himself was awed at the almost _physical _weight the entities added to the atmosphere. He chuckled once again at the fact that Mortanius had never sensed them. 

The blood was enough to drive a vampire insane with hunger, and the spirits- enough to drive a human insane with fear. 

Stone sculptures of Hylden lined the walls like enormous, demon-like gargoyles. Their muscled bodies were visible from the waist up, legs melding with the wall. The curved bat's wings that identified their race were unfolded, but not at their full extension. The sculptures touched at the outer curve of their wings and the points of their taloned fingers. The winged demons all stared down at him, fanged grins stretching their faces, partially hidden by the horns that curled before their cheeks. Mobius peered at them through narrowed eyes, his lips pressed together in a triumphant sneer. 

The Time Streamer circled the enormous fountain, heading for the sculpture in the center of the far wall. The tips of its wings were extended straight up, to their fullest length, the face and arms turned towards the ceiling as if entreating help from the heavens. This sculpture's eyes were closed, the face pained. The sense of awareness seemed to collect around this stone figure. 

Mobius stood before it, and smiled. He planted his staff in a small hole worn in the crack between the floor stones. The gesture felt like tradition by now. "I have something that will interest you." Mobius took a box from the inside of his robes and held it out in front of the carving. He waited. Then he jumped slightly, seeming to remember something. "Oh! Silly me," he said, mockingly. "You cannot open it yourself, now can you?" he asked, and opened the box towards the sculpture.

"Recognize this?" he murmured. A sound resonated from the walls of the room; something that was very similar to a started gasp made by several overlapping voices. "Ah, I shall take that as a yes. So sad," he mused, leering up at the sculpture, "Janos was the last of his kind, after all."

The walls seemed to tremble in anger. Mobius' leer only grew more pronounced. "Oh, poor child. Poor, self-sacrificing child. To have given your life for nothing at all," the Time Streamer shook his head sadly. "Do you know; I think that is the most amusing thing I have _ever _heard." He smirked.

_:You have not won yet, Mobius.: _A slight veil of dust fell from the carvings as the amalgam of voices echoed from the walls. _:The heart still beats.:_

"Did I not tell you?" he asked, pleased that he had angered the presence enough to speak to him. "The Reaver Guardian's successor appeared recently." Mobius gave a smile that was laced with venom. "He was there for Janos' execution," he hissed. "The poor thing was so broken up about it that he vowed to return his mentor's heart." The Time Streamer's voice softened, he continued in a mockingly soothing tone. "And I shall do everything in my power to help him."

_The weight of despair lay upon my shoulders, suffocating in its intensity. So I was to become the thing I abhorred the most. A tool. An inanimate object. Powerless to effect change in my environment. My purpose determined by my wielder. I seethed with ire as I realized how little would change from my current existence to the next. I would become the _true _Soul Reaver. Stripped of mind and will, I would be fated to serve my foes in this circle of being... forever._

Raziel knelt in the center of the Sarafan Chapel, in the exact spot he had fallen after fading into the Spectral Realm. Immersed in his despair, he was oblivious to the silent presence that hovered nearby; confused after the violent separation with its physical body.

The spirit world was timeless. Raziel could kneel there forever if he chose to, and at the moment, it seemed like the best thing to do. 

Mobius had used him, easily, delightedly, to kill Janos Audron. He had been used, _manipulated_, as easily as Kain _would _be, five centuries from now. 

He was just like Kain. His father, maker, destroyer. They were the same.

A broken sound echoed through the stillness. It was repeated several times and the unnoticed watcher shivered in fear at the noise, as well as the source of it. 

Raziel's cloven hands were clenched, his head bowed, and the sound gathered volume. 

Laughter. 

The Soul Reaver was laughing for the first time in centuries, and he did not sound quite sane.

Kain cursed as Raziel faded into the Spectral Realm. Endless possibilities lay open to them now, and yet- Mobius knew every move they could make, and every move to counter them. 

The new memories-

_Janos Audron leaned back in his chair at one side of Vorador's dining table, a weary pair of eyes, glowing at the fledgling Kain from the shadows. Vorador prattled on about his conquest of the Circle and his defeat of the Sarafan warrior Malek. Kain slowly tuned out the tedious story, but during his effort to seem as if he were paying attention, his eyes kept straying to Janos. The winged being seemed tired, strained, somewhat peaceful- and yet, Kain could feel something around the Ancient. A feeling of... impurity. He did not understand what caused it. _

While Vorador seemed to have been the more violent and bloody-minded of the two, the Ancient Vampire felt clean, whole. His essence was of blood and anger, and something else, something that was the very heart of magic- the pure energy of the world. Kain ignored the Vampire's words and instead focused on the intense, moving power of his life force. Somehow, Kain felt that Vorador's essence was made of light, or fire- two of the foremost things that were the bane of their kind. 

It was absurd, but the young vampire knew no other explanation. Vorador was an absolute, something that was made up of truths. The world was a violent, exploitative thing that could also be quiescent and evenhanded, and so was the creature that sat before him now.

The vampire's inner being was a thing that burned; that purified_. It flowed through him. It connected him to the world, denying forever the idea that Vampires were an abomination, something unnatural._

Janos- was different. While he once, perhaps, been made of similar stuff -and he had to have been, as he was Vorador's maker- he was tarnished. The energy that animated him was laced with something else. A corruptive agent; something living within him that was not part of Janos' original being. 

That something reached out to Kain, recognizing him as like_ to itself._

_Kain surged up from his throne- staring in rage at the being before him. _

It looked vaguely vampiric, but horribly wrong. Flesh-covered horns curled from each side of the creature's head. They stemmed from the back of the skull, curving around the head to end in wicked points before its cheeks. In every other respect, it resembled Kain himself, and what his Lieutenants had been at the end of their first Millennia. In every other respect, but one. The creature had wings.

__

"A Razielim," Kain murmured through clenched teeth. 

It smiled. "Perhaps I was_, quite a long time ago. But we prefer a new -or rather _old_- name now." A forked, black tongue flicked out over sharp fangs. "I am Adojan, of the _Hylden_." The creature searched Kain's face for a hint of surprise and found none. Its smile grew. "You were expecting me. You know what I plan to do."_

Kain nodded once in response. "How did you escape the Purge?" he asked, honestly curious. 

"The Reaver Guardian saved me," it smirked. Kain looked to the shadows and watched Janos pace forward to stand beside the creature. 

Kain had known this was to be. Even as he ordered the destruction of Raziel's clan, he knew there would be one to escape and create more of its kind. What he didn't understand was-

"Why, Janos?" 

The Ancient flinched. His shoulders were hunched, his wings hanging limply from his back. His posture was that of one broken, defeated.

"I was tainted from the moment of my rebirth, Kain," the winged one murmured. "After death, the Unspoken and his minions met me in the Spectral Realm. Raziel brought me back with their talons embedded in my soul."

"A pleasant way to reclaim the world, don't you think? Riding in on the... wings_," Adojan smirked, "of one sworn to destroy us? After all, Kain, one must keep his friends close," the creature said mockingly, "and his enemies, _even closer_._

"He had no choice but to help us. We unerringly corrupt those that we touch, and those we _have touched, corrupt everything _they_ touch."_

Kain's lip curled in rage and he remembered Mortanius; how the Guardian's body had expanded as the Demon Hash'ak'gik exploded from within. 

Adojan smiled, following Kain's line of thought. "You _carry our taint, Vampire God of Nosgoth." He gave a mocking bow. "We thank you for populating the world with our brethren-"_

Kain knew Raziel would revive Janos. If anything, Kain's firstborn was determined- and his act would be more detrimental to the fate of the world than _any_ choice Kain had made in _his _time. Raziel would find the heart, return it to its former owner, and begin a chain of events that would eventually destroy Nosgoth.

Kain paced across the room. With no more than a sneer and a passing glance for the body of the Sarafan Inquisitor, he snatched up the Reaver blade and left the room. He had to find the heart before Raziel, and keep him from using it to revive the last of the Ancients.

Kain strode down the hall, pausing only to blast a few Sarafan guards from his path. Nearing the exit, he heard the sounds of a struggle. Kain turned a corner and saw Vorador, and a regimen of Sarafan Knights preventing him from teleporting out of the Stronghold. Kain smiled in anticipation of a fight and strode forward. 

One of the Knights caught sight of him. "Another one! Surely this vampire is the murderer of the Generals!"

Kain laughed. "Thank a creature with blue skin and shredded wings for the death of your greatest fighters. I have killed enough that I need not take credit for another's victories." Vorador was staring at him with narrowed eyes, which widened as he noticed the Reaver, clasped in Kain's hand. "May I join you?" he asked cordially.

The green-skinned vampire looked a Kain for a moment, then gave a faint smile and nodded once.

"The vampires are gone!" A magically amplified voice shouted from the watchtower. "They have disappeared!" 

"Secure the perimeter. Make certain none remain within the Stronghold," Mortanius ordered. The Sarafan rushed off to do his bidding, leaving the Pillar of Death alone in the corridor. He reflected briefly on the irony of the word. Their hold couldn't be _that_ strong, or the vampires would not have penetrated their defenses.

Mortanius clenched one bone-white hand, turned and strode into the room behind him. 

Malek, the Commander of the Sarafan and Pillar of Conflict knelt beside the basin in the center, head in his hands, his helmet and long-bladed spear on the floor before him. 

Mortanius took in the sight of his murdered brethren, lying where they had fallen on the floor, and Mobius, the only other survivor of the circle. The Pillar of Time stood a few steps away, sorrow written on his lined face.

The Pillar of Death twisted a thin-fingered hand in Malek's hair and pulled, forcing the Guardian to look him in the face.

"Where _were _you?" he hissed. Malek's eyes were tortured, but still as proud as ever.

"Protecting the castle from a threat, Lord Mortanius," he replied. "Lord Mobius led me to an intruder and bade me keep the creature from leaving the room."

Mortanius turned his burning gaze on Mobius, who was kneeling over one of their fallen comrades. A lifeless hand was clasped in his, tears coursed down his cheeks. At Malek's words, the Time Streamer looked up with a shocked expression on his face. 

"This is no time for your excuses, Malek," Mobius whispered, astonished. Malek turned his head slightly, looking at Mobius with a bewildered expression on his face. The Pillar of Time stood with the aid of his staff and leaned heavily upon it, seeming to need the support. He gazed at them with a wounded look on his face. Mortanius' eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

"My Lord-" Malek began.

"What did this 'creature' look like, Malek?" Mortanius interrupted, still focused on Mobius. 

"My Lord, it was something like a cross between a demon and a vampire. Blue flesh, no skin... Lord, the thing had _no entrails_. It seemed to be a creature with only muscle stretched across bone. There were flaps of skin upon its back," Malek paused in thought for a moment, trying to remember more. Mortanius removed his hand from the Sarafan's dark hair and walked slowly towards Mobius. 

"The creature wore a flap of cloth around the lower half of its face... it- it had cloven hands, like one of the older vampires. From what Raziel-" Malek paused, his voice breaking slightly. He cleared his throat and continued. "Raziel and the others told me it vaguely resembled the Vampire Janos Audron."

"Malek," Mortanius murmured, coming to a stop before the Time Streamer, "six of the Pillars have fallen today. We also lost six of our best warriors. Part of the blame for this lies on your shoulders... and part of it on ours. 

"Nevertheless," Mortanius said, his gaze locked with Mobius', "something must be done to ensure that our losses stop _here_."

"As I live, Lord Mortanius, no other Guardian will fall," the Pillar of Conflict vowed.

"I will hold you to those words, Malek of the Sarafan," Mortanius said ominously. "Now leave us." Mortanius heard the steely chink of chain mail tapping against armor as the Warrior Priest rose from the stone floor. He bowed, and taking up his helm and spear, departed, shutting the door behind him.

"Are you quite finished?" Mortanius' deep voice resonated throughout the room.

Mobius' injured expression disappeared. The Sorcerer straightened and loosened his grip on the staff. His eyes were now completely dry. "Indeed."

"Malek is not possessed of enough imagination to lie, Mobius," he said in a soft, intent voice. "And I tasted un-life in four separate places, all in the same space of time this day. One of those was very familiar, as our troops have been killing the rats from his swamp for years now. 

"Vorador killed six of our brethren," Mortanius said, his jaw tightening. "For hundreds of years he has ventured no father than the walls of his Mansion, and _this day _he comes into the very seat of our power." The Pillar of Death waved a hand in the direction of their fallen comrades. "Why did you not warn them that the Sarafan were planning to murder Janos Audron?"

"Murder, Mortanius?" Mobius asked mildly. "How can one murder something that is already dead?"

Mortanius chuckled; the sound of old bones grinding together. "Murder is murder, Mobius, regardless of what dies."

"Why did _you_ not warn them?" Mobius asked reasonably. "You must have sensed the Vampire Audron's death, _and _Vorador stirring."

The Pillar of Death chuckled again. "Need we keep shifting the blame, Mobius? We both _know _who is at fault here."

Mobius chuckled in response. "You don't trust me, Mortanius. You never have," he said mildly. "But you will not kill me. You _cannot_. Such an act would leave you and _Malek_ to fend off the Vampires. That scenario, as amusing as I may find it, would end in the death of the Circle...as well as Nosgoth." Mobius smiled. "Neither of us want that."

Mortanius was a statue; his eye sockets the only evidence of his emotions as they burned in impotent fury. Mobius only smiled at him, waiting. The Time Streamer was right, and _knew_ he was right.

"Why did you kill them, Mobius?"

The injured look was back. "_I _did not kill them."

"You could not have been more involved in their deaths had you held the sword _yourself_," he hissed. Mortanius turned away slowly and paced across the room. He stared emotionlessly down at the bodies as he went. Their souls had long since fled, finding their pathways to the realms beyond.

"We need a safeguard, Mortanius," the Time Streamer murmured. "As you said- we have lost twelve of our most powerful this day. We need some form of protection until the new Guardians are found."

"What were the other beings, Mobius?" the Pillar of Death asked, ignoring his fellow Sorcerer's words for the moment. His eyes focused on the pale skin of the fallen Pillar of States. He stared at her body without seeing it, noticing only the way the light shone on her auburn hair. "I sensed my own power within one of them. And I have known the soul of the second. Of the third... I cannot find an explanation."

"In the future, you will find reason to use your powers of resurrection, Mortanius. That was the familiar power you felt."

"_I_, create a vampire?" he murmured. The thought was absurd, and yet- it made more sense than anything he had considered thus far. "What of the others? At one time I felt three souls in the space of a single room, all different, yet- much too similar. Then I looked in the Ouroborous room and saw a body, so I know the soul that haunts the Sarafan chapel." Mortanius pondered this, wondering why the Sarafan Inquisitor was the only soul to linger while the others had passed beyond. "The question I have, Mobius- is _why_ are they still there?"

Mobius looked sharply up at him. "_They_?"

"I have been the Guardian of the Pillar of Death for a very long time, Mobius. I have never experienced this phenomenon. I would say that the same soul had been split into three separate parts- yet each one is of a different evolution."

Mobius' smiled malevolently and headed for the door. "Come, my friend. Follow me and all will be explained."

==================================

Questions? Comments? Screams for more? Well Review and tell me all about it! ^_^


	4. The Wisdom Keeper

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. Adojan the Hylden, Zofia & Evike Audron, however, are my brain children. I'll introduce a few more in this chapter. Meet Lorant and Cili. ;-)

Authors notes: Okay people I'm going to tell you something that you guys probably already realized. When Soul Reaver 3 _finally_ comes out, this will be made inaccurate. *grins at the people coughing 'no shit'* But I don't care about that. The fact that I've written about original characters automatically makes this inaccurate. When we get to SR3, if anyone wishes, I'll happily slap an AU (alternate universe) label on this fic. But until then *grins* we won't worry about it. ^_^

You all should know- this is where it gets tricky, for several reasons. 

See- I'm going to be switching from the past; Zofia and the Ancients, to the time of the Sarafan; where Kain, Vorador & Raziel currently are. There will be information given in the 'past' chapters that will shed light on the 'future' ones. 

While I know _exactly _what Zofie and her people are going to do, Raziel & the others, I'm not as certain about.

I'm a planner at heart *grins* and I've come down from the inspiration high I had during the first two chapters. I'm starting to plan these chapters out a little more- which means that production is going to slow down- but stick with me and you won't be sorry! 

Okay, here's some of that Action I promised. It will come more often as I focus more on Raziel in later chapters. ^_^ More drama, (why yes, I _am_ a drama queen *flutters eyelashes*) some humor, some suspense(?) and lots of interesting facts. *smiles* Read on, ladies and gents!

*Gives another group hug to her reviewers, old as well as new*

Chapter 3

The Wisdom Keeper

__

Nosgoth ~ 1649 B. C. ~ The Living World 

_She couldn't see. Her sight had been taken by an event she could not remember. All that she knew was that while, for her, this condition was the norm, it had not _always _been thus. _

Her eyes were whole and round within their sockets, but the fall of light on the surrounding environment did not register with them. What she could _see was not sight as she remembered it from childhood. She could remember having eyes that could distinguish color, form, contrast and detail. _

She had all of those senses still, but the colors had been diluted into shadows. The forms, which were now shapeless masses of light and darkness, served as the only contrasts. Detail had been obliterated completely. 

A small voice in her head reminded her that this deprivation was the price she paid for her talent. 

What talent? _she asked silently. _Where am I?_ But there was no memory of how she had come to be here. There was only the darkness around her. It was shot with slivers of light and warmth, but still mind-crushingly dark. And it continued to close in on her._

They were herded roughly down the stairs; she and many others like her. Yet, for all the familiarity of these others_, she could not place a name to any of them. She could sense their life-essences, but she was not familiar enough with that type of detection to guess what life-essence belonged to what person. Her companions were silent, canceling the possibility of identifying them by their voices._

As her reason threatened to flee, one thought stayed. In the absence of her sight, she needed to use her other senses. The thought was calming, pulling her back from edge of hysteria. She breathed deeply, forgot the lack of sight, and reached out with everything else.

The hooded cloak billowed out around her body, somehow clinging to her skin at the same time. It was heavy, dragging along the stairs, hampering movement. It numbed her sense of touch and denied the touch of air on her skin. The main purpose they served, she imagined, was to keep them from using their wings. Not that their wings would have done any good. 

The soft noises that could be heard barely echoed. This meant that the ceiling, while high enough for them to stand straight, was not much higher. Had they been able to fly, the narrow confines of the staircase would have kept them from doing so.

She could hear brushing of cloth on stone, the shuffling of their feet down the stairs. Some of her company were breathing heavily, their fear intensifying their need for air. There were the soft grunts and groans of those that had sustained injuries... some were sobbing quietly. There were the sounds of their guides; soft, deep breaths, periodic malevolent chuckling, the sound of a massive hand slapping against stone, or against flesh_,_ _as they encouraged her companions to keep moving. _

Under it all was the soft thrumming that was more within the domain of touch _than of hearing. It trembled through the stone, against her feet, in perfect time with the beating of her heart. It grew continually stronger as she traveled down the stairs, and had she been able to, she would have run from the vibration as fast as her legs could carry her. She did not understand what it was, but if she continued down the stairs, she knew she would. That prospect was not a welcome one. She wondered if no one else could feel it._

The scent on the air was that of dust and magic. There were soft, musky scents around her; the fragrance of wings. But it was overpowered by the stink of sulfur, brimstone; poisonous blood and old death. There was magic in the air as well. Old, dark_ magic. She could taste it on the back of her tongue, coupled with the acid tang of fear. Her throat was try. She swallowed, licking her lips in an attempt to draw some moisture from somewhere... _anywhere_. Finally, she pressed her tongue to one needle-sharp canine, piercing it, wetting her mouth with her own blood._

She felt a cold, dark presence press in at her left side. It was a shadow against the greater darkness, had been drawn in by the smell. 

"Your terror is very sweet, child," it growled. "I imagine your flesh will taste even sweeter." A taloned finger stroked her cheek. The dark presence laughed as she recoiled, stumbled into one of her comrades and lost her footing. 

It reached out to catch her, perhaps pull her close to it, but was intercepted by a warmer, more familiar presence.

"Leave. Her. Alone." 

She knew that voice... had known _it since her earliest days. Yet she could not put a name to the person. The voice was protective in its quiet ferocity, roughened by anger and sorrow. A female's voice, belonging to one who was as close to her as a sister. A _friend's _voice. _

The world shifted around her, bringing a dizzying sense of vertigo, and she realized what was happening. She was having a Vision_. She was a _Seer _and this was a _Vision_. That fact surfaced in the deep lake that was her memory. It gave her something to latch on to, and another memory followed close behind. The moment she succeeded in identifying something around her, the Vision would shatter. _

The Seer reluctantly surrendered herself to ignorance and stepped gratefully into the circle of her friend's arms. 

She noticed then, that all movement behind them had stopped. She, the warm voice, and the dark presence, were the leaders of this frightened little band, and although they were all here of their own volition, a pause in movement was welcomed by all. 

All, except their guides. 

The Seer could hear soft gasps, angry and fearful cries behind them. They were caused, she supposed, by the other dark ones attempting to hurry them along. 

The warm presence at her side was still speaking to her tormentor. "-no right to mistreat her. You have already won your victory over us," her friend said heatedly.

"Every injustice we cause you is a victory in its own right," the dark one replied. The larger form clutched the Seer's shoulder and shoved forward, sending her crashing down the last few dozen or more steps. 

Each impact felt like a fist slamming into her body. Thought fled entirely, replaced by knowledge of the pain. The Seer realized, dimly, that she cried out with each blow. After an indefinite amount of time, it stopped. 

She lay there at the bottom of the steps, silent for a moment, her head ringing in the sudden stillness. Then the thrumming of the stone came again, and this time it had a source. 

She turned her un-seeing eyes up. There was a great Shadow before her, swallowing all the light around it. The vibration came from that, whatever it was_. The Seer did _not_ want to go in there. She tried to stand, to move away, and began crying silently as each bruise painfully reasserted its existence. There came the sound of cloven feet on stone and the warm presence knelt beside her, one arm looping around her shoulders and a hand clutching hers, helping her to stand._

"Courage, little sister," the voice murmured. The Seer bit back a sob and nodded once. The dark being laughed harshly, brushing past her, heading for the Shadow. Her comrade stepped back, drawing her away from the creature. 

A sound resonated throughout the stairway, the Seer identified it as the creaking of a door- two_ doors. She shrank back against the one supporting her, managed to take comfort from the presence of the others as they descended the staircase, joining them at the bottom._

The creaking subsided and from the room beyond, something stirred, bringing the thrumming to a crescendo. Through every vein in her body she could feel her heart, beating in time with that vibration. A wave of fear rolled over the Seer, snatching her breath away for a moment before passing to those behind her. She fought down the panic fluttering in her heart, reminding herself that the emotion had originated outside of her own consciousness; that there was no reason to be so frightened. Then the source of the vibration stirred again, coming closer, and she wondered if she had been wrong.

Someone moved to the Seer's back, taking her hand from the presence at her side. Her breathing quickened in the instant before she realized this new person was another half-familiar companion. The hand was larger, masculine, and held hers in a firm, but gentle grasp. He drew her further back, into the group that was their comrades. 

The friend who had argued with the dark presence stood in front of them all, acting as a buffer against whatever lay inside that room. 

The Seer clutched at the hand in hers. She waited, not knowing what_ she was waiting _for_. _

Suddenly her soul shrank within her body as an entity, darker by far than her tormentor, stirred within the room and approached the threshold. Feeling the fine tremor that ran through her comrade's hand, she knew she was not the only one. The vibration was so intense that she wondered if it were not now controlling_ the rate of her heartbeat. She could finally identify it. The creature, whatever it was, was possessed of a power so strong that it shook the very stones around it. The others felt it by now... they _had_ to feel it by _now_._

The warm presence stood tall and defiant, but seemed pitifully small in the face of the other being. The dark one's gaze traveled over them, fanning the blaze of their fear and panic. 

The Seer wanted to run, every impulse told her to do so, but the throbbing of the creature's power; setting the pace for her heart, kept her immobile and smothered her will. She thought she would go mad, and then the entity's attention focused on the presence directly before it.

"So here you stand at last, Keeper of Wisdom." The voice was a rumbling current of malevolent energy, matching its power exactly. The Seer shivered at the satisfied, possessive tone of the voice. "Now you are a force to be reckoned with in your own right," it said. "No longer simply the Reaver Guardian's daughter."

The Reaver Guardian's Daughter. 

The Reaver Guardian's Daughter_. _

Those words rang within the Seer's mind. They were something factual and recognizable in the midst of an assault of unfamiliar sensations. Her un-seeing eyes turned to the small form standing before the dark entity. The Reaver Guardian's Daughter.

"Zofia-" the Seer whispered. And the vision shattered.

Comprehension returned slowly, beginning with simple thoughts.

_I am... I exist._

While all other ideas were barred from her dazed mind, wiped away by the trauma of her vision, these simple affirmations remained.

_I am... I exist._

These thoughts, the two absolute truths of all the universe, had been ingrained in her consciousness through a decade of intensive training after the time of her first vision.

_I am.... I am.... I am...._ Then another realization intruded. _Cili. I am... Cili._

The young Ancient sat up in bed, un-seeing eyes wide. Her skin was cold, her soft nightdress drenched with sweat. She brought a shaking hand to her face, wiped back soaked strands of hair. Her wing feathers were mantled in response to the erratic beating of her heart. This Vision had been a bad one. She delayed for a few moments in calling it back, suspecting how emotionally violent the memory would be.

Cili breathed deeply, once, twice, and lay back. Closing her eyes, she reached for the recollection of her newest Vision.

Zofia opened her eyes to the darkness of her bedchamber. She pressed a palm to her cheek, recalling the touch of her mother's hand on her face. She sobbed once and turned to lay on her side, closing her eyes. A few tears squeezed through her tightly closed eyelids and collected on her lashes. Zofia closed her arms about her knees, curling into a little ball in the center of her bed. One shining wing stretched over her body, hiding it beneath a blanket of silky black feathers. 

It was the day after the Passing Ceremony. But she was not weeping for her mother. 

Zofia breathed slowly, denying herself the urge to scream. All her suspicions had been confirmed, and deep within her soul she raged at the truth for being so harsh. She breathed quickly, deeply, clenching her hands into fists. Her anger grew, fed by her sorrow and a soul-deep fury at the injustice done to her and her people. 

The young Ancient fought for control over her emotions and won by shutting them off completely. Golden eyes opened slowly. Zofia folded back her wing with exceeding care, closing it almost one feather-width at a time. After that, she sat up and pushed gently off the bed, placing her cloven feet on the cold floor. Looking as if the action utilized no conscious thought, Zofia stood, paced to the end of her bed, and took up the robe that lay there. 

She stared off into middle distance while pleating the back of the heavy cloth in her hands. Zofia pulled it over her head, flipping the thin strip at the back between her wings before pushing her hands through the wide sleeves. The pure white material covered the low-backed nightgown, completely hiding its thin, dark fabric. Zofia smoothed the garment, a habitual gesture, and wrapped the cloth belt twice around her waist, fastening the robe tightly.

Zofia crossed the chamber in three deliberate strides, stopping in front of the rounded balcony door. One sky-colored hand closed about the handle, the other reached out to touch one of the glass panels that formed the door. It was cool compared to her skin, comforting. Zofia flattened her palm on the glass, shut her eyes, and pressed her forehead against the door. 

That moment of stillness brought back her briefly forgotten emotions. Zofia's jaw clenched and her muscles tensed. Opening her eyes, she took a step back and pulled open the door. Without hesitation she strode out onto the balcony and launched herself into the air.

"Explain something to me," Lorant said, dodging to the left. 

"Yes?" Vorador prompted. The young vampire took a step forward and slashed at the Ancient's leg. Lorant caught Vorador's sword on his arm guard and flicked his own blade out, meeting air where the vampire's arm had been moments before.

"How is it that I am physically stronger than you are-" he threw Vorador's blade to the side and turned, slamming his wing into his bronze-skinned companion. "More agile-" he blocked a thrust with his sword and rolled backwards on his wings. Balancing on them, he kicked at Vorador's chest with his cloven feet. "And have more endurance-" The vampire grunted with the impact, but knocked the Ancient's feet away and pressed the tip of his blade against his friend's neck. "Yet in our sparring matches," Lorant said wryly, "you always win."

Vorador moved his blade and gave the young warrior a hand up. "Could it be, perhaps, that I am over a hundred years older than you, have more combat experience, taught you half of what you know about _strategy_, and have more knowledge of fighting styles?" he laughed. 

Lorant considered that. "Yes, I think that could be it." They both chuckled and moved to face off once again. "So-" 

Vorador made the first move, stepping forward with a quick downward cut. "Your habit of talking during battle is unlikely to be of help," the vampire smirked.

"I still have an advantage you do not," Lorant grinned. Their blades met for an instant before the Ancient jumped lightly into the air and backwinged, hovering over his friend.

Vorador laughed, turning as if he were going to accede the match. In one smooth, continuous movement he turned, dropped into a crouch and then launched himself out of it, the momentum of his leg muscles shooting him towards his companion. Vorador cut the sword out of Lorant's hand and they both fell to the floor of the arena. 

"Some advantage," Vorador sighed. He got up, leaving the winged one on the white marble. "You have to pay more attention, Lorant. Were I an enemy- you would have been dead." He smirked. "Several times, in fact."

The Ancient sighed. He put one foot on the floor and rested his other leg on his bent knee. The suspended foot wiggled in the air. Vorador chuckled at his friend, sheathed his blade and began a stretching exercise. 

"When did you get those claws, Vorador?" 

The vampire glanced down at his long fingers and the black, talon-like nails that adorned them. "Somewhere around two hundred years." There was silence for a while, and then-

"Why do you evolve?" Lorant asked.

"Why?" he repeated, making sure he had heard Lorant correctly. The Ancient nodded. Vorador bristled slightly at his friend's sudden curiosity. Lorant was not asking to be snide, or judgmental, but there were others who's questions were not so innocent. Vorador sighed. "I was human once. My life-essence was transformed by Zofia's father and my body initiates change because it wishes to fit my form to my life-essence." 

Lorant was sitting up, listening with interest. Vorador chuckled at the young one's wide-eyed expression. 

The pale-haired Ancient had talent with blades, enthusiasm and energy in abundance, and a lighthearted personality that fooled many into thinking he had no intelligence. There was also an innocence in him that was at odds with the soul of a warrior- which no one could deny he possessed.

"Catch-" Vorador said suddenly. He snatched up his friend's sword and threw it in a smooth arch. There was no hesitation- Lorant simply plucked it out of the air. Vorador smiled to himself.... It was odd. He had lived in this place, as a vampire, for a very long time, yet some of the old instincts- the need to take care of those younger than himself, the need to pass on knowledge- remained from his life as a human. 

"So someday you shall only have three fingers?" Lorant asked, climbing to his feet.

"It is possible," he said briskly, growing slightly uncomfortable with the conversation.

"And wings?" the Ancient asked, sheathing his blade. Another trait of Lorant's was the inability to drop a subject that interested him.

Vorador grinned. "That I kind of doubt."

"Why is that?" 

"I feel more of a connection with wolves than I do _birds_." Vorador looked up, examining the domed ceiling of the arena. 

This training area was the very top room of the Ancient's Haven. There were no staircases leading down to the lower floors. The only way to get up there was with wings... or a strong set of legs. As it was a training area for winged beings, it was open to the air and had a very high ceiling, which was supported by wide marble columns.

Vorador was not exactly fond of heights. An over zealous jump in his early days as a vampire had led to a very painful fall. He had broken an arm and both legs, and while they had healed completely in mere hours, he did not relish, as the Ancients did, standing at the precipice cliff, or any form of long drop.

When Lorant walked past him and stood at the edge of the arena's floor, Vorador had to stifle a request for the winged youth to move back.

"There is someone out there," Lorant murmured. Vorador followed the other's gaze and noticed a white-robed form gliding far in the distance. The figure was quite small, but its laborious wing beats were evident to his heightened sense of sight. Vorador picked out a wrathful scream, and was able to identify the voice that made it.

"Zofia."

Lorant turned to look at him, curious. "What is she doing?"

"Venting her sorrow -or anger- I imagine." They watched her silently for a time. Vorador narrowed his eyes, worried at the reckless dives and turns Zofia made. She would drop hundreds of feet, only to pull herself up again with powerful thrusts of her wings. Instead of using the airstreams to carry her, she seemed to be fighting them, trying to fly in the face of the turbulent winds.

Vorador was first to voice his worry. "Perhaps you should go out and-"

"Me? She's a much better flyer than I am- I- I would..." 

Vorador rolled his eyes. Lorant, simply put, was afraid. Zofia was seldom angered by anything, but when she _did_ lose her temper... it was better to leave her alone. Lorant was also nervous, being one of the younger children of his generation, to speak with Zofia about _anything_. She commanded a certain amount of respect from her peers by being the eldest, as well as her proficiency in magic.

"I shall wait here until she comes back in," the vampire said, absolving the young Ancient. 

Lorant didn't hesitate to accept the way out that Vorador offered him. "And I shall spend a few hours in sleep." He turned to face his friend, briefly clasped a hand to Vorador's shoulder. The winged youth stepped back so that his feet were half off the edge of the arena. "Shall I give you a lift?" he asked politely, his grin mischievous. Lorant was well aware of Vorador's aversion to heights.

"Thank you, but no," the vamprie responded, smiling faintly. 

"Suit yourself." The Ancient leaned backwards and fell over the edge. Vorador shuddered and cast a wary glance over the rim of the floor. 

Lorant fell gracefully through the air, turning end-over-end. When his head was pointed at the ground, his wings snapped open, catching the air and pulling the young one into a slow glide.

"Show-off," Vorador muttered, half disgusted, half amused. The vampire stepped close to the edge and turned to one of the marble columns. He dropped slightly into a crouch and threw himself at the column. He hung on for an instant before pushing off of it and grabbing the lip of the decorative molding at the edge of the roof. 

Vorador pulled himself easily onto the domed roof and stalked away from the edge. The young vampire settled himself against the marble stature adorning the center of the dome. It was, as one would expect, of an Ancient. 

The winged being held a crooked blade, point up, over his head. At his feet lay a small model of the Pillars of Nosgoth. Vorador put his back against the round base of the statue and waited. Lifting his eyes, he watched Zofia flit about on the winds. Sometimes she glided, other times beat her wings lazily through the air. Vorador smiled as he saw her roll once, twice, many times in various directions. He had seen this display before. It was fairly often that he saw one of the Ancients flying off in the distance; just for the pure joy of doing it.

'When you fly that far above the ground, letting your wings carry you... it is almost as if you become one with the wind,' Zofia had told him once. He knew that sensation. It did not occur with the wind under his _wings_, but against his _back _as he ran through the forest, jumping and dodging the tree roots and bushes under his feet. He became one with the wind in the fluid motions of his legs and arms when he moved through the woods quicker than human eyes could follow. It was _then _that he almost felt the urge to use four limbs instead of two- _then _that the animals of the forest tried to run with him, and it was then that he imagined, were he to stay too long with the wolves, he may not want to come back.

Zofia landed softly on the dome, too preoccupied to notice him. She dropped gracefully onto the roof, wings drooping with exhaustion, face flushed, but pleased. 

"Feeling better?" Vorador asked her. Her wings twitched; the only evidence of her surprise. 

"Not really," she sighed. Zofia stood and crossed her arms, hugging herself. Vorador sat quietly, waiting for her to speak. At length, she did. "I am frightened," she admitted in a whisper. "Mother's soul came to me in a dream. I have come into my power at last."

Vorador's gaze snapped to the young Ancient. As the first child of her generation, Zofia had been born with the possibility of receiving a powerful, but unidentifiable magical ability. Vorador, like many others, had been curious as to what she could do, but the power had been latent, untouchable... until now.

"What is it?" he asked, eagerly.

Zofia's head bowed slightly. "Do you remember what mother studied?" she murmured.

"The properties of souls," Vorador replied. Did Zofia have some talent connecting with that?

"I remember what she taught us- all of the fledglings," and she began to recite. "What we call a soul has two parts. The knowledge and the life-essence. And a soul has one of three beginnings. Human, Ancient or Hylden. 

"As the cycle of life continues, both parts of the soul increase. When the cycle ends, the life-essence is lost, but the knowledge remains, stored and protected, within the soul. When the cycle begins again, the knowledge is locked away, to keep from affecting the current cycle of life."

"I remember that as well," Vorador said, recalling old lessons with many small, black winged children.

"A soul that began as Human can be born into the body of an Ancient, or a Hylden, or even a human once again... and a soul that began as Hylden can be born as Human, or Hylden again, or... although it is unlikely, as an Ancient," her voice grew softer, "and the other way around as well." Zofia finally turned slightly to look at him. "She taught each of us these things.

"But there were many things she _didn't _teach us." Vorador tilted his head to the side, questioningly. For some reason, she felt the need to talk, and although it may take her some time to come to a point, he would allow her to. "The ways that the soul protects the mind, for example. 

"If a soul comes into a great amount of power during a cycle, the mind may not be able to contain it all. In these cases, the soul it opens its path to the stored knowledge. That gives more room for the power to inhabit, but it also releases the memories of past lives. Mother knew of a cave that housed- some sort of magic-" she waved her hand about, trying to choose the correct words, "-pool of water, that could show one these memories."

"Zofia-"

She overrode him, eyes burning with the fire of knowledge. "Or- when the mind suffers a great amount of pain for a prolonged period of time, it replicates itself, sacrificing the copy to torture so the original can stay sane."

In spite of himself, Vorador was struck with curiosity at her words. "Has that ever happened?"

"Once," Zofia shuddered. "The Hylden caught one of our people at the beginning of the Great War. They tortured him for so long that his soul fled his body, passing into the spectral realm... leaving the twin of itself behind.

"The original came back as a wraith, destroyed the Hylden that held his twin captive, and they escaped. When the Ancients found them again, they were amazed, and horrified. The twin, completely mad, tried to kill himself, but he _couldn't die_. Or rather, he _could_ die, but he couldn't _stay dead_. The Ancients worked to understand what had happened, and what could be done to fix him, and he went back to the fighting. He fought through the ranks of the Hylden like a scythe through grain.

"Imagine what the must have been like," Zofia murmured. 

"What happened to him?"

"My mother discovered a way to re-connect the two souls. After they joined, the Ancient killed himself."

Vorador was horrified, not by the story, but- "How do you know this?" 

Zofia chuckled softly, turning away from him. "I admit, I am not supposed to." She sighed. "Let me give you another history lesson. When the knowledge of the Ancients is in danger of being lost- if many die before they can pass what they know to their children- the knowledge is given to a child of the youngest generation... the one that the Gods feel has the greatest chance of survival.

"When an Ancient died, the soul of the one who passed on would come to this child, giving them all the wisdom they possessed in one neat parcel. They called this person a Wisdom Keeper."

There was only one reason he could think of for her to be giving him this information. "This Wisdom Keeper- it is you?" Vorador guessed worriedly. Zofia nodded. "Are you certain?"

Zofia laughed lightly, but her voice was strained. "You can sense truth, Vorador, you know I am speaking it." She read his silence and knew he was still unconvinced. "You wish proof?" she asked.

Vorador thought about it and remembered a long forgotten bit of information. "Yes," he said to her. "These Wisdom Keepers are supposed to have the ability to compel truth, correct?" She turned back to him, suddenly afraid. "Compel some truth from me," he said, grinning. 

"I... no, Vorador," Zofia said. "I do not-"

"Zofia, I know there are questions you wish I would answer. Here is your chance."

"_No_," she said heatedly. 

"Why? It may not work at all," he said comfortingly.

"But if it does, that will make all of this _real_," she cried.

"All of what?" 

"'Our race is dying', mother told me. The souls of the adults are in despair. They will all follow her in less than four hundred years. That is why I have been chosen. The rate of death among Ancients continues to be greater than the rate of births.

"None of them wish to create more life because it means either taking life or creating more lives like yours, and our elders deny both of those choices. Cili will be the last of our generation... the _very_ last. The Pillars..." Zofia stared at the ground, blinking rapidly, tears forming in her eyes. "The Guardians will die, and there will be none of our people to take their places."

"What does that mean?" Vorador murmured, confused.

"Vorador," she said softly, "do you ever feel lonely?" His eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

"What?"

"Do you?" she whispered. The vampire sighed in annoyance. Zofia refused to keep to a single topic. "Do you, brother?" she asked timidly. 

Damn. She had called him brother. Vorador shook his head ruefully. Zofia was the only one who had ever given him the title, and she used it -as most younger sisters used terms of endearment- as a weapon.

"Yes," he admitted. "Sometimes I suppose I do."

"Do you ever wish to leave The Haven?"

He chuckled. "Well I will _eventually_. You know that."

"Yes, but do you ever _dislike _living here?"

"The Haven is a beautiful place... I never lack for anything." 

That was his standard response. He had been asked that question several times in several centuries, and he always answered the same way. They were silent for a moment, and he chuckled harshly. 

"There are times I have seen the Pillar Guardians studying me as if I were an interesting, and somewhat horrifying type of insect," he murmured. "I've brought shame to Janos more than once with my presence." He toyed with the hilt of his blade, baring his teeth in an almost feral smile. He spoke before thinking when Zofia asked him another question.

"Do you blame father for what you are?"

Vorador shook his head gently. He felt the need to speak, to explain his feelings. "No," he said. "He was hunting, and I happened to be prey. Janos was not the first hunter to pursue me, just the first to catch me.... It is funny... I remember being brought back from the dead, how Janos did it, I mean.... I think I could create another of my kind in the same way. 

"I have even _considered _it," he breathed. 

There was a startled gasp from off to his side. Vorador's head snapped up. What had he said? If any of the elder Ancients had heard- His eyes widened as he looked into Zofia's horrified gaze.

"It is true," she whispered, folding an arm over her stomach. "Oh, Gods, it is _all_ true."

"Zofie- Zofie, I didn't mean that," Vorador said hastily. He rushed forward, grabbing her shoulders. If the elders ever leaned that he planned on creating others like him, they would- he had no idea what they would do. She only looked up at him, scared and pale, tears spilling from her eyes. "Zofie, you must promise me-"

"Gods _damn_ you, Vorador, I would never do such a thing and you know it!" she shouted. "I do not _care _if you wish to make another of your own race!" She wrenched out of his grasp, backing angrily away from him.

"Do you not _understand_?" she cried, holding her hands up in a pleading gesture. "You told me to compel truth from you and _I did it_." Zofia glared at him, eyes shining. Finally the full implications of her action hit him. 

She nodded once as he looked at her with comprehension. Her tone was softly ironic as she spoke again. "Gaze in wonder at the Wisdom Keeper of the Ancients."

==============================================

Reviews are requested, as always ;-) 


	5. The Soul Reaver

Copyright © 2002 by Syvia (Aka Rebecca K. Friedrick). All Rights Reserved.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. Adojan the Hylden, Zofia & Evike Audron, and Lorant & Cili *Neci walks up and taps her on the shoulder* Oh! _and _Neci, of the winged race, are all my brain children. ...The list is growing. ;-) *Neci smiles, nods once and leaves*

Authors notes: *Syvia walks in, carrying the storyline of Blood Omen 2 under her arm. She walks up to the vaguely constructed storyline _Restoring Balance_ and sets BO2 down. She examines the storyline for a while. She pulls a roll of clear tape and a pair of scissors out of thin air, holds them both up and clicks the scissors meditatively. 

Without warning Syvia starts cutting and taping the storylines of the first three Legacy of Kain games, the newest, and her own story additions. She cuts bits away and moves them over to make room for the events of BO2, she moves parts of her story around and takes other pieces out completely. Her hands blur and the air is filled with little slivers of dialogue and plot devices. 

She stops, snips a stray description off of _Restoring Balance_, and steps back. Although made from many different storylines, the board is a seamless and comprehensive whole. She clicks the scissors again, examining the board, then she turns to the readers.*

Syvia- Okay, what that meant, was that there will be some material relevant to BO2 within this chapter, and possibly all the chapters after it. This will actually be what _I_ think happened after the ending of BO2, which means it's mostly from my imagination, but _from now on _you should-

*********BE AWARE OF THE POSSIBLE BLOOD OMEN 2 SPOILERS*********

Aside from that- *Shouts* -Okay everyone, I'm going back to the events after SR2! You can all come back!!!!!!

Cili- They don't like us, do they?

Zofia- *comfortingly* It's not that, it's just that they don't quite know what's going on. 

Lorant- That's no excuse! 

Syvia- Calm down guys, it's to be expected. After all, they know Kain and Raziel and Mobius and the others better. You're the new characters. It shouldn't be surprising that people are more interested in the ones they know.

*They all grumble softly.*

Syvia- Hey, _I_ like you. *smiles* *The four of them hug*

All readers- Awwwwww....

Syvia- (To the readers) Okay, knock it off silly people! In this chapter, Kain will make Vorador an offer he can't refuse, Raziel will gain more insight into the wraith blade and Mobius and Mortanius make plans to protect the Circle.

Kain- I hope you appreciate the effort I'm making _not_ to do my Godfather impression.

Vorador- We are all very grateful.

Raziel- Am I included in this 'plan' of Mobius'.

*Mobius smiles evilly at him. Raziel shudders.*

Raziel- (To Syvia) I'm not going to like this, am I? *Syvia grins evilly at him. _Everyone_ shudders.* 

Chapter 4

The Soul Reaver

__

Nosgoth ~ 500 B. C. ~ The Living World

The world righted itself slowly as the teleportation spell ended. A quick glance about him told Kain that he and Vorador were within the Termogent Forest. 

The atmosphere was lush with plant life. Everything in the swamp a different shade of green, even the stone walls of the ruins. Ravens cawed to each other from the tops of trees, their calls mixing with the whine of mosquitoes and the croaking of frogs. Kain's nose wrinkled at the mucky smell of stagnant water and mold. The decay of plants gave an underlying stench to the entire area.

_What an appropriate- and painful- place for vampires to dwell,_ Kain thought wryly. Pond scum covered everything, masking most of the puddles. Tendrils of mold grew on the trees, hanging down and obscuring their true foliage. Dragonflies could be seen darting about above the water, iridescent wings moving so quickly that the insects' bodies were practically motionless. Water hung in the very air, making the swamp so damp that simply walking through it could irritate a vampire's skin.

It had taken the fledgling Kain several centuries to understand the reason Vorador built his dwelling in the swamp. He hadn't truly cared until the time had come to build his own seat of power. It was then he'd learned that by accepting one's weaknesses, one could turn them to an advantage. 

Humans disliked the swamp, disliked traveling within it. The grimy water made them slow, distracted them, and the ruined buildings in which Vorador had built his mansion had high walls that were difficult to climb. A vampire would have little difficulty keeping above the swamp, and the soldiers that traversed it... if he were cautious.

The Termogent Forest would not change greatly in the next five centuries. The important question was; would Vorador? Kain turned, sheathing the Reaver within a strap of leather slung over his shoulder for that specific purpose. Vorador sheathed his own blade, but watched Kain closely, seeming to expect an attack. 

The silver-haired vampire made a conscious effort not to smile. How strange it was now that their roles had been reversed. In this meeting, Kain was the elder of the two by at least three hundred years. Vorador was conscious of this, if only because a vampire did not develop cloven hands until well after six hundred years of un-life. 

In their first meeting, Vorador had been alive for over two millennia. Kain, a vampire for less than two weeks, had posed little -if any- threat. Vorador had allowed him to walk boldly through the front door of his manor; to fight his way to the dining area as best he could. 

Now that Kain was Vorador's equal in power, he saw the cautious side of the 'Father of Vampires'. Instead of teleporting straight to the manor, they had appeared outside of it. Instead of offering the first greeting, Vorador stood silently, waiting to see what Kain would do. 

Things must not have changed greatly however, for though the ancient vampire was suspicious, perhaps even a bit fearful of Kain, he did not fly for the safety of his home. Kain imagined that Vorador was keeping him away from the manor to guard the pets he kept there. 

In Kain's opinion, that had always been the green-skinned vampire's greatest weakness. He believed that Vorador cared too greatly for those around him. That fault had sent him into the Sarafan Stronghold this very day. In both timelines of Kain's memory, it had gotten him in trouble, gotten him _killed_.

Kain had felt distain for that trait in the past. Today hoped to use Vorador's overly strong emotions to his advantage.

What remained of the Sarafan forces were on alert. When The Pillars of Death and Time opened a door into the hallway, they found no less than a dozen soldiers waiting to escort them wherever they might be headed.

_Already Malek seeks to redeem himself_, Mortanius thought wryly. He strode down the hall beside Mobius, both of them heedless of the young soldiers trailing after them like lost children. Had a vampire actually attacked them, Mortanius imagined that he and Mobius would be the ones protecting the _Sarafan_, not the other way around. 

The knights were looking around pensively, hands at the hilts of their swords, jumping if one of their company _breathed _too loudly. What was more, they were keeping a respectful three feet from the two sorcerers. Three feet that could have meant death to either of the Pillar Guardians, had the vampires actually been planning another attack... had Mobius and Mortanius not been the two strongest members of the circle.

_Indeed we are the two strongest members of the Circle- but that status means little now that the full number is only three,_ Mortanius thought bitterly.

Mobius began speaking to him, his voice too soft for the knights to hear.

"We need protection from the vampires, Mortanius. We need it _now_ and-"

"And it will come in the form of Pillar of Conflict," Mortanius interrupted just as softly.

"His Generals fell," Mobius returned bluntly. "Who is to say that Vorador will not launch another attack? Malek was unconscious when the battalion found him. Had they not appeared when they did, Vorador might have killed _seven _of the Circle instead of six."

"Vorador survived for over sixteen hundred years because he is _not_ easily roused from his manor," the necromancer murmured. "In his mind, his sire has been avenged and we have learned a lesson. He will not come to finish us off.... Unless you have seen something?" Mobius did not respond to Mortanius' question, which had the desired effect of silencing the Time Streamer completely. Mobius guarded his knowledge jealously. It was a rare thing for him to volunteer information about the visions he saw in the streams of time.

"But you are correct that we require protection," Mortanius continued. "Now that Vorador has reminded the other vampires that we are, in fact, mortal, we need something that will frighten them into leaving us be."

"Which is?" 

Mortanius ignored the question. "Who -or _what_- killed the Generals, Mobius?" he asked. Mobius' smirk did not go unnoticed. The Pillar of Death had made his choice in what to do with Malek, and had a sneaking suspicion that the Time Streamer knew what that choice was. However, Mortanius was reluctant to put words to his decision. It was necessity that demanded Malek's damnation... but that fact did not lessen the Necromancer's feelings of guilt. Mobius answered Mortanius' question, seeming to have decided to leave his fellow sorcerer be, for now.

"Malek spoke true," Mobius whispered. "The winged creature with blue flesh did indeed kill the Generals." His voice grew lower still. "As you realized earlier, the creature within the Ouroborous room was, and _is_, Raziel," Mobius said.

The two sorcerers made their way through the Stronghold, towards the relevant room. "One soul within is the original; the soul of the Sarafan so recently murdered. Nearly a thousand years from now, that soul will be raised as a vampire. A thousand years after _that_, he will be executed- thrown into a whirlpool called, by the vampires of his time, the 'Lake of the Dead'. In a quest for revenge against his murderer, Raziel shall be lured back into Nosgoth's past. His mind had been poisoned against us. First by the vampires who raised and then destroyed him, and a second time by Janos Audron. He saw the Sarafan kill Audron- followed them here, and murdered them all." Mobius paused, considering. "That is where events currently stand."

"Raziel was the instrument of his own demise?" Mortanius asked incredulously.

"He burned for centuries in that lake- went mad during the process..." Mobius's voice took on a wistful note and the sorcerer sighed. "He also lived for centuries as a vampire, Mortanius. It is not surprising that he would be taught to hate the Sarafan order, what he once was."

Mortanius wondered idly why Mobius tried to fool him with these false emotions. He was not, after all, like one of the Sarafan Knights; who never looked past the tips of their own swords, or Malek; who was not devious enough to think Mobius might be hiding his true feelings. 

Perhaps the Time Streamer was so used to acting that he did so unconsciously. 

"In an effort to bring strength to the Sarafan Order in our time of need you must take hold of Raziel's soul and fuse it into the sword the Generals stole from the Vampire Audron," Mobius said intently.

"Fuse his soul into the sword?" Mortanius echoed softly. "In the remote possibility that Raziel had _not_ gone mad during his time in this Abyss you speak of, he surely _would_ in being bonded with the blade." He said slowly, thinking. Mobius was not telling him everything... the Time Streamer never _did_.

"But it _will_ _occur_, Mortanius. The creature that is now Raziel has come into _our _time from the _future_,with half of his soul in the form of a Spectral blade."

"Half of his soul?" Mortanius repeated curiously. Suddenly Mobius wouldn't look at him. Had the Time Streamer said something he shouldn't have? "This is a monstrous course of action, Mobius," Mortanius continued. "To use one of the Generals so cruelly- no matter _what _he has become-"

"It is no more monstrous than fusing Malek's soul into a suit of magically forged armor," Mobius hissed.

Mortanius stiffened, but kept walking. The Time Streamer had _indeed_ foreseen the course of action Mortanius had considered. To think that the he would actually do it.... The Pillar of Death shuddered inwardly.

"And have you seen the Sarafan rise up in rebellion at the cruelty I inflict upon their commander?" Mortanius whispered bitterly.

"Malek was at fault for the deaths of six circle members, Mortanius," the other sorcerer murmured somberly, his voice a perfect imitation of sorrow. The Sarafan behind them exchanged looks. Some nodded slightly, others bowed their heads. "He admits his guilt," Mobius' voice dropped and he continued in a nearly inaudible whisper, "and will accept whatever punishment we deem appropriate." They were both silent for a time.

"Do you plan to oppose me in this, Mortanius?" the Time Streamer pressed. 

"I plan to take any action necessary to keep Nosgoth alive," the Pillar of Death responded. Mobius nodded once in return. "But this future Raziel? What need is there for that?"

"He must be _contained_, Mortanius," Mobius said intently. Mortanius' eyes narrowed slightly, the only evidence of his puzzlement. The Time Streamer actually sounded worried. "He is completely mad and incredibly dangerous. He penetrated the defenses of the Stronghold and killed the Generals. Were he given the opportunity, he would do the same to the _rest _of us and revive Janos Audron."

Mortanius stopped and turned to face the other sorcerer. Behind them, the Sarafan knights stopped in their tracks and looked about nervously. "What has the last Ancient to do with this?" 

Mobius ignored him. "I require you to hold him in the Physical Realm long enough for him to come in contact with the Reaver... to be impaled upon it."

"A fine plan, Mobius, if not for one slight problem," Mortanius said wryly. The Pillar of Time looked at him quizzically. "Did you fail to consult the Time Streams, Mobius?" he asked mockingly, earning a glare from the other sorcerer. "The Reaver was stolen mere hours ago by Vorador and the vampire you claim I created."

Vorador stared at the other vampire, unable to decide what came next. The other wouldn't do anything, only stand there, and so they stared at each other.

Vorador had seen displays like this before, between young vampires of similar ages. They were territorial, those fledglings, and jealous of each other's power. When two vampires who were similar in power met for the first time, often a duel took place to determine who was stronger. Some ended in death. Vorador was unsure who would win if this vampire wanted a fight, but that idea mattered little when compared with the thought that this vampire actually seemed _older_ than he was, which was, or _should have been_, impossible.

The green-skinned vampire went to speak, but the other beat him to it.

"I would speak to you of your sister, Zofia," he said.

Vorador had expected several different greetings, but that was not one of them. His eyes went wide, then narrowed. "How do you know that name?" he asked.

"I can bring her back, Vorador," the silver-haired vampire said, ignoring the question.

For a moment, the ancient vampire's slowly beating heart actually _stopped_. Only hours ago his Sire had been murdered, causing him to run headfirst into the lion's den on a quest for revenge. He had only escaped because of the help this unknown vampire had provided, and now this same stranger was offering something that was impossible, _had_ to be impossible. Yet... whoever he was, he was speaking the truth.

"I suggest you explain yourself, vampire, and quickly," Vorador growled softly. "You gave me aid in fighting the Sarafan, and I thank you for it. But that act does not give me sufficient cause to trust you. You hold the Reaver in your possession and do not seem to plan on relinquishing it... not that _I_ would do so, were I in your position," he admitted.

"You are the only other vampire I've met to come close to me in age," Vorador continued, "yet I had it on very good authority that I was the first vampire made, as well as the creator of every vampire who came after. 

"Now, as I am quite certain that the beings who made me were the only ones capable of such an act, and quite certain that _I_ am not the one who made _you_, I find no explanation of your existence."

"Allow me to enlighten you," the other vampire said. He raised a hand to his left ear and tore something from it. The vampire tossed it to Vorador, who snatched it out of the air.

He glanced at it for a second. Vorador's eyes darted to the other vampire, then back to the object in his hand. The ring-

_"There you are," Neci said proudly, holding up the ring. It shone darkly in the well-contained firelight of the forge. Vorador took it and examined the ornament with interest. Lorant, standing nearby, was not impressed._

"That is all_?" he asked incredulously. "_One _ring from the teeth of nearly a hundred wolves? Next you shall tell me you want more bones to make the blade I wanted."_

"Well, as a matter of fact..."

Lorant's groaned at Neci's amused smile. "I have brought you five skeletons already_," the young warrior said irritably. Lorant turned to Vorador. "This is the difference between a Master smith and an apprentice." _

"When the apprentice is the only smith willing to craft your sword," Vorador chuckled, "it is unwise to insult him." 

Neci's smile held as he spoke again. "If you know so much about forging weapons, Lorant, tell me of a Master's work that did not require the bones of at least five creatures."

Vorador continued to examine his new ring as Lorant stamped off, grumbling quietly.

"It is somewhat large, Neci," Vorador murmured, twirling the ring around his thumb. There was room for another finger within the band. 

"Because it was created for large fingers," Neci said. He took the ring back and briefly slipped it on his own finger, demonstrating the perfect fit. The young Ancient produced a thin leather tie and threaded the ornament through it. "Wear it as a necklace until yours grow big enough."

"How do you know they will ever _be big enough?" Vorador asked, grinning slightly. Neci looked at the vampire appraisingly, some strange hidden knowledge in his eyes._

"We know," the smith assured him.

Lorant ran back to them with a triumphant look on his face. "The Reaver _was created from the bones of only _one_ being," he said proudly._

Neci looked sharply at the young warrior. Lorant suddenly realized what he had said and looked away, ashamed he had spoken of such an event so callously. When he spoke again, his voice was much softer, but still indignant.

"I think I_ could make _ten_ blades from what I have already given you."_

Neci gave him a dirty look. "If you believe you can do so well, you are welcome to take up a hammer and make your own _sword."_

"You said this ring would be magic," Vorador interrupted, rubbing it between his fingers. "What does it do?"

Neci smiled again, eager to explain his latest masterpiece. "You must paint the ring with your blood and speak an incantation I shall teach you. Afterwards, none will be able to steal the ring from you; the only way for another to obtain it is for you to give the ring freely. Once given to another, that person can use it to call you to their location. Were this person to die, the ring would eventually find its way back to you, or you to it."

Vorador raised an eyebrow, intrigued, and examined the ring more carefully. 

"There is a side effect, however, as you will be required to aid this person for so long as they need you. Were I you, I would give it only to someone I trusted, or to someone who's need was very great."

"I will remember, Neci. It is a very fine ring." 

The apprentice weapon-smith shrugged, smiling at the praise.

Vorador raised his eyes to the other vampire. 

"This will take some time to explain," the silver-haired one said.

"You have just acquired my undivided attention," Vorador murmured.

Raziel slowly became aware of a soft murmuring that echoed through his consciousness, reaching out to soothe his churning mind. He opened his eyes to look at the Reaver, its misty length rippling with sliver rings of light. 

They emanated from the tip of the sword, traveling downward. When they reached his arm, they were absorbed into his hand and the murmuring grew slightly louder before dropping in volume once again. 

Was it trying to speak with him?

Raziel unclenched his hand slowly and brought the Reaver close to his face. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the awareness that was the wraith blade. 

-_Silence... darkness... soothing... stability... being... encompassed-_

Raziel started and held his arm as far from his body as possible. The blade knew only perception, feeling and sensation, and this was how it could communicate. The wraith blade continued its murmuring, which seemed to be an attempt to calm him- it had the opposite effect. Reluctantly Raziel held the blade close to his forehead once again and closed his eyes, focusing on the pulsating energy that flowed over his arm.

__

:What do you want of me?: Raziel whispered to it, trying to make his thoughts known.

_-Safety... existence... passivity... unity- _

The spirit energy that was the Reaver crept down his arm, spread itself out over his life-essence. Raziel shuddered as the blade embraced him completely, permeating his very being. At that moment Raziel could feel the Reaver's consciousness as clearly as he did his own perceptions. 

He had known the blade was its own entity, with its own will and its own awareness. This was the first time he realized the blade had its own agenda.

_-Unity-_

The blade was his own soul. It had recognized him, _itself,_ from the moment they had joined together in the Sanctuary of the Clans. 

__

-Tearing... absence... fear... falling- 

In the absence of the Reaver's physical self, the wraith blade felt naked, unprotected, torn in half. Raziel's soul was a poor substitute, as he possessed no true body, only had substance while in the Physical Realm. The wraith wanted to reconnect with what it had once been- would do so at any cost, and as Raziel was bound to it, the wraith wished to take him in as well. 

__

:No...: Raziel whispered, suddenly understanding. _:You disconnected from me once. Go back into the blade if you wish, but leave me behind.: _The Reaver's energy collected into a sphere within Raziel's wasted chest, a pulsating, living energy... he shuddered convulsively as the blade began to mimic a heartbeat.

_-...Unity...-_

It wanted him as well, and would not be reasoned with. From the blade's point of view, Raziel belonged to it, just as the Reaver Blade did. Raziel shuddered again as the wraith blade traveled the length of his being from the crown of his head to the tips of his cloven feet. The sensation came again. Unity. 

Suddenly Raziel remembered the moment in the Sanctuary of the Clans with painful clarity-

_He reached out for the blade, hovering before him in the still air. His hand was only inches away, and it leapt at him, twisting and writhing like a live thing on his arm. The Elder God was speaking, but he could not hear the words over the wailing in his mind. The pain was spectacular, and yet- there was the sense of being given back something he had not been aware he was missing. It was the feeling of a key fitting into a lock, or pieces of a puzzle sliding into place. _

Through the lull of memory he sensed a feeling of satisfaction in the awareness of the other being. It reached out, closing itself around his mind- trying to take possession of him-

__

:NO!: he shouted. Raziel thrust the wraith's 'self' as far away from his own as he possibly could and opened his eyes. The glow collected again around his emaciated chest, resembling a breastplate constructed of magic energy.

Gently but firmly the wraith blade touched his mind once again. Raziel was reminded of what he had felt when the wraith blade had left him.

_-Emptiness... longing... hunger... need- _

He gave a small, pained cry, but reached for his anger, pulling to him like a shield.

__

:I shall not go willingly into the sword,: he hissed at the wraith. A wave of red light overtook the green for a moment before dissipating. Other sensations swept through Raziel.

__

-The warmth of blood and the screaming of the soul- torn from its physical tether- there was another, a wielder- so close- so close- beyond reach of the blade- safe- sating their debilitating hunger by feeding from the souls of its enemies- enough- it was enough- filling the emptiness- 

:I do not wish to become like you,: Raziel thoughts grated over the perceptions forced upon him by the wraith blade. 

_-Unity... inevitable... unavoidable- _

Rage burned within him, overtaking all other emotions. The wraith's awareness withdrew, collecting about his arm once again, its murmur softening to a more normal volume. Raziel rose to his feet and paced the room, once... twice... abruptly he screamed in frustration and began slashing at one of the marble columns, making absolutely no mark on its twisted surface. 

Raziel did not truly have a body, and so could not become physically tired, but eventually his fighting spirit dwindled, his anger burned down, and he sank back to the floor. The wraith took that moment of weakness and pushed itself again into Raziel's mind.

_-Unavoidable-_

The feeling was repeated, lapping at Raziel's consciousness like waves on a rock in the ocean. The rock could hold strong for centuries, but would eventually be worn down by the constant rolling of water against stone.

Raziel felt a sense of pleasure radiate from the blade's awareness before it drew back from his mind, satisfied in the knowledge that Raziel could not stand against it forever. The wraith blade continued humming softly, and, sick with anger at his helplessness, the Soul Reaver did his best to ignore the sound.

Mortanius had entered the Spectral Realm out of the sight of the former Sarafan, and therefore was able to observe Raziel without being noticed. The Pillar of Death examined the wraith kneeling within the circle of the winged snake. That was indeed the correct term for what he saw. The Raziel before him should not have been any more than a vampire wraith, if perhaps stronger than most, yet- he had power unlike any spirit Mortanius had ever seen.

It seemed that Mobius had indeed been keeping something from him, or perhaps, although it was unlikely, the Time Streamer had not realized Raziel's soul had been twinned. The soul had created a copy of itself. That explanation was the only one that made sense. 

Other vampiric souls may have indeed gone mad from the torture of death by water, but Raziel's soul had replicated, the original making a copy to bear their physical pain while the body they inhabited had dissolved. The sacrificial half of his soul was mad indeed, and held the aspect of a sword. Mortanius sensed that imprisonment had only _augmented_ its madness. The result of this was that the original soul had retained enough presence of mind to use what powers remained from his un-life and the powers that had been developed due to his condition. 

This soul, both aspects of it, could devour other souls, just as _any _vampire wraith could, but Raziel could also manifest in the Material Realm and manipulate objects in that plane of existence. Such a power, Mortanius had only observed in demons. He was a mixture of things, surely. The Guardian of Death pondered the creature before him. 

Suddenly he sensed the presence of another being. A small blue globe hovered in the Spectral Plane, weaving lazily between the columns circling the edge of the room. Raziel... 

Some indefinite period of time later the blade finally quieted and Raziel was left alone with his despair. Finally he acknowledged his role in the game that was Nosgoth. 

_ Raziel heard a voice as the Chronoplast slowly released him. His feet touched solid ground and a figure stepped through the swirling clouds of magic that surrounded him._

"Raziel- redeemer and destroyer- pawn and messiah... welcome time spanned soul, welcome- to your destiny."

He laughed scornfully to himself. Two of the titles Mobius had given him fit quite well. He had destroyed many... and he now realized how lowly a pawn he truly was. What of the others? Perhaps he had saved a few of the humans in Nosgoth's future, but he had redeemed no one. He _would_ redeem no one. Mobius would have him trapped in the Reaver before he had the chance.

_And what will you do now, Pawn? _he asked himself. _Will you sit here and wait complacently for the Time Streamer to come and finish what the Reaver started? _

If Mobius can even enter _the spectral realm... but even if he cannot, he will find you eventually; he and the Demon who calls himself a God. Then the cycle will be completed. _

"It will not happen," he murmured. "Not before I redeem my_self_ by returning Janos' heart." 

He stood, having decided at last on a course of action. It was then that a fuzzy blue glow appeared in Raziel's peripheral vision. The Soul Reaver flinched in surprise, jumped to his feet with the wraith blade humming in anticipation of an attack.

The soul receded, startled. Raziel lowered the Reaver and studied the blazing globe, confused.

There was no grinning skull within the fire, which branded the soul as human. But a human soul seldom lingered in one area of the Spectral Realm, being constantly chased by sluagh or vampire wraiths.

This soul had not been here long enough to incur the scavengers' attention, which meant it was his _own _soul, newly fled from its human body. For some reason, the wrath upon his arm took no interest in it. Hatred and disgust burned within the Soul Reaver as he remembered the... _creature_ he had been as a human. Suddenly the recently human entity seemed to recognize him, the pale blue fires surrounding it rose in ire and the soul drifted closer in an attempt to seem threatening. Raziel laughed. Even in death, the Sarafan Raziel retained his boundless arrogance.

"So here we are," Raziel murmured, repeating the words the Sarafan had said to him just moments before. "A bit overconfident were we?" he asked mockingly. "Although I admit, you were correct," Raziel said, his eyes crinkling in the manner of a smirk, "you were not as easy prey as your brethren."

The soul rippled in anger. Raziel laughed and continued to taunt his former self.

"Is there a word to describe the hatred you bear me?" he murmured. "I do not think there is... but know that I return the sentiment." His harsh laugh sounded once again. "You shall hate me even more once you realize what I truly am." Raziel stared at his own soul, hanging in the stillness, and an idea, generated from the depths of his self-loathing, formed in the back of Raziel's mind. 

"I have the chance right now," he murmured. "Were I to consume you..." his voice grew soft in its intensity, "I could effect a tear in the skein of history so great that it would pull the very fabric of Nosgoth apart." He chuckled harshly. "Would they not be surprised? Kain... the Elder God... Mobius. I would have beaten them after all. I am too vital to History's plan, after all, to be lightly destroyed." Raziel's laughter was soft, dark in its humor, as he put a hand to the edge of his clan drape.

"If any Power loyal to History is near," he breathed, "let them act now, or cease to exist." Raziel grasped the reddish-brown cloth and pulled. 

He wondered how far he would be allowed to go. Would the soul be saved a finger's width from his throat? Would a demon leap out at him when it was inches away? The Soul Reaver did not honestly believe he would be allowed to destroy Nosgoth, and so he began to tug at the soul, his _own_ soul, as he pulled the cloth down. 

The human entity rippled in alarm as it drifted towards Raziel, caught in the inexorable pull of the Soul Reaver's power. Raziel tasted his own essence -warm with the promise of life and pure in its knowledge. He felt his former 'self' for an instant before the world around him cried out in agony and a slicing pain lanced through him. Raziel convulsed, in agony, but continued to pull. He almost believed he could hear the world tearing at the seams -or was it the tearing of his own existence?

_The ultimate act of defiance, Raziel,_ he thought to himself, _and the ultimate act of revenge. There will no longer be a _Nosgoth _to be saved. The fatal paradox... if you can carry through it. _The pain was excruciating, ripping into him with more force than the claws of a thousand Black Demons. Yet he pulled, and the soul drifted closer. The world rippled- he felt his existence, his 'self' fading. A wave of fear rolled over him, and then it stopped. It _all_ stopped.

_He_ stopped, staggered weakly back from the soul as the pain ended. Raziel looked up at the human soul, which flew from him, and stifled a cry of horror and at what he had almost done. The core of him shuddered in fear of the near brush Nosgoth had had with non-existence. He turned blindly away, and froze, looking into blazing eyes that matched his own.

"A bold move, my boy, but a foolish one," a deep voice rumbled. 

"While one can take one's own life, it is impossible to take one's own soul, Raziel," Mortanius continued. The Pillar of Death was impressed. While it would have been impossible for Raziel to negate existence, he had shown amazing endurance in being able to go so close to the act. This fact, more than anything else, convinced Mortanius that the one before him had once been the Sarafan Inquisitor. "You overdid it just a bit, I think. Trying to destroy Nosgoth in order to remove yourself from it, were you?"

Mortanius watched as the Soul Reaver's eyes narrowed and the young one backed away from him. "How else would I succeed?" Raziel murmured.

Mortanius was intrigued. It was interesting, he thought, that such a monumental act had been nothing more than a suicide attempt.

"Did you not say you planned to restore Janos Audron?" Mortanius asked softly.

Raziel's hands clenched. "How long have you been standing there, Necromancer?"

The Pillar of Death smiled imperceptibly. So Raziel knew him, but probably not due to his _own_ memories. "Long enough."

"And you did not attempt to stop me?"

"As I said- it would have been impossible-"

"Why?"

"You do not possess the amount of power needed to _reverse _existence," Mortanius answered harshly. "Nor does any creature on Nosgoth." The truth of Mortanius' words carried a force that was almost physical blow. Raziel took several steps away from him and leaned back against a column, seeming to need the support.

"What do you want of me?" Raziel murmured. "Or perhaps I know already..." he said, looking up at Mortanius. "You are the sword-smith who will make me into _this_," Raziel hissed, brandishing the wraith blade coiled around his arm.

Mortanius did not deny the boy's claim. "Do I dare request that you come along quietly?"

"That would depend on where you wish to lead me," Raziel answered in a flippant tone. 

Mortanius's smile grew ever so slightly. Perhaps this Raziel had more in common with the Sarafan than he had suspected. "Although I would owe a debt of gratitude to whomever dispatched the Time Streamer, I cannot allow Mobius' death at this time." 

Raziel drew the wraith blade into a guard position. Mortanius' voice grew softer as he continued. "That means I must concede to and _aid _his proposal."

Mortanius gathered his power, expecting Raziel to attack. The boy did not disappoint him. The Pillar of Death remained still as the winged soul drew back his blade and lunged forward. Mere inches away from the Necromancer, Raziel was caught by the web of power. It twisted around him, seizing his muscles and freezing him in place. Mortanius shook his head slightly and walked around the former Sarafan. So many similarities this one had with his former self. 

He could sense Raziel straining against the web, trying desperately to move his own body. It was a futile effort. Mortanius was the Pillar of Death, and Raziel was just another kind of spirit. There was no way for him to escape, and Raziel realized that. Mortanius recognized the attack for what it had been; the death throes of a wounded soldier. Reflexive, involuntary actions that were not expected to accomplish anything. 

"Are you so unconcerned with the lives of Nosgoth that you would side with Mobius?" Raziel whispered. Mortanius turned to look at the boy. He caused the web to dissipate and the wraith's cloven feet dropped to the floor.

"If I were _not_, the Time Streamer would have tasted my power long ago."

The Soul Reaver chuckled. "A power struggle amongst the Elder God's servants. How fortunate for those of us on the other side." Mortanius looked at him, mildly confused, but did not say anything. 

"How do you plan to do it?" Raziel whispered, his tone almost afraid.

"Quickly, with as little pain as is possible," Mortanius murmured.

"Why do you not just kill me?" Raziel asked, his tone was scornful, but almost pleading. "Are you not the Pillar of Death? I should think you could kill anything." The last comment was half sarcastic, half imploring.

Mortanius understood death more intimately than any other being could wish to. He understood the fear of it, as well as the wish _for _it, and did not fault any creature for their preference. The Pillar of Death gave Raziel a searching look. _If it were within my power, _he wondered to himself, _would I grant him his wish? _Mortanius sighed. The answer was 'yes'.

"For the sake of Nosgoth, I cannot," the necromancer murmured. _And for lack of knowledge, I _truly _cannot. _The boy's shoulders dropped slightly. "Until we regain the Reaver, another place has been prepared for you." Raziel turned and the Necromancer stared into glowing blue eyes. 

"So my torment is to be prolonged," he whispered. It seemed to Mortanius that Raziel's next question was involuntary. "Where?"

"The Eternal Prison."

====================================

Syvia- *to the readers* Morbid ending, I know. But you're still interested, right?

Raziel (plaintively)- Syvia, did I wrong you in another life?

Syvia- *she sighs and squeezes Raziel's shoulder* Raz, that's exactly the kind of thing Mobius would do to you. I'm just writing it as it would actually happen. *He walks away dejectedly. Syvia sighs and turns to the readers* Reviews anyone? 


	6. Unity

Copyright © 2002 by Syvia (Aka Rebecca K. Friedrick). All Rights Reserved.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. Adojan the Hylden and all of the Ancients except Janos are my brain children. If you want the full list- go to the dictionary in the back. ^_^

Authors notes: *Syvia is sitting before a computer in the white space. She turns on her LOTR soundtrack and sighs happily. Her three favorite brainchildren appear behind her.*

Zofia- Any time now.

Syvia- *turns and just looks at her*

Zofia- *sighing* The chapter is _fine_. Just post it.

Syvia- I don't know...

Zofia- Trust me, it's great. Just put it up.

Syvia- *begins bouncing up and down a bit in her chair* But I'm a little bit of a perfectionist and slightly neurotic...

Zofia- Sweetie, we already _knew _that.

Syvia- But-

Zofia- Syvie, your deadline's just been shortened, you have to upload it by tonight, so _upload it_.

Syvia- *groans* Alright, _alright_. Fine then, you're all up now, and here's what we have for this chapter. *She gets up, pulls a picnic basket out of nowhere and reaches inside* We have angst in a bottle. *she grins and tosses it to Zofia* We have a can of comfort and understanding. *she hands that to Cili* And for levity we have-

Lorant- A banana cream pie?

*Syvia smirks at him and balances the pie on one hand. Lorant suddenly realizes what the pie is for and looks at her with a horrified expression on his face.*

Lorant- No, no NO! *he runs off with Syvia in pursuit, cackling madly. Zofia and Cili dissolve into laughter.*

Chapter 5

Unity

__

Nosgoth ~ 1649 B. C. ~ The Living World 

Lorant was heading towards his bedchamber when they struck. 

Although the young Ancient was a skilled warrior, able to win a five-to-one fight, taller, and quite capable of taking on his attackers, the three had a few advantages. They had the element of surprise, more guile, a little more age, and most dangerously, were female. 

"_Lorant_!" the three Ancients called in their sweet, finely-tuned voices. He flinched in surprise and turned for a glimpse of the three before he looked about for an escape route. He'd made a choice and turned in that direction, but a second before he could flee the fledglings, a slim arm threaded through each of his and tightened. The girls were upon him. They smiled amusedly at his worried expression. Within minutes they were sure to have him well and truly in their grasp.

His captors were three young Ancients, all born within an hour of each other. They were the daughters of three sisters, and had been raised almost as sisters themselves. Mara, Hajna, and Anci were often known as 'the Three Graces', for that was what each of their names meant. Mara, the eldest, had hair that was the color of new snow, Hajna possessed locks of spun silver, and Anci, the youngest, hair as black as the feathers of her wings. As far as looks went, that was the only difference between them. 

The girls could have been triplets, sisters in terms of body as well as soul. Their faces were the same delicate pointed oval, their lips small blue bows, and their eyes pools of molten gold. As their appearances were so similar, it was assumed by many that their personalities also were. These uninformed ones learned quickly how wrong they were, for the girls' personalities were as obviously different as their voices.

Anci was a soft-spoken soprano. Her voice rose, bird-like, above those of her sisters. She was kind and gentle, and was often the first of the three to speak or act. Mara, by comparison, was a reserved alto with a clear, but not often heard, voice. Her words carried on perfect tones, not overly loud, but commanding attention. Mara possessed a sharp, blunt way of speaking, and knew with frightening exactness when to use it. Most of the time, if she spoke, it was to berate someone. Hajna was the happy medium, and held the best and worst qualities of her sisters in equal measure. This was a useful thing, as she was able to see all situations from both points of view and could calm the occasional conflicts between her sisters, or aid the sister who was in the right, to win the argument.

The three were individuals, and none who knew them could doubt it, yet they shared several common traits. The first and most evident, was a proficiency at music, specifically, singing. The other was a fierce determination to obtain what they desired. At this particular point in time, they seemed to desire something of _him_.

He swallowed annoyance at being detained from his bed and smiled congenially at them. "Ladies. I was just about to retire for a slight nap-"

"How good it was that we caught you, then," Anci said in her whispery voice, squeezing his right arm briefly. "You can take your rest with us." Anci and Hajna began pulling him down the corridor with Mara in the lead. 

"I beg your pardon?" he asked confusedly.

"We have gathered a dozen of the fledglings in one room for a demonstration of our new powers," Hajna said excitedly.

Lorant's eyebrows flew up in alarm. They couldn't mean what he thought they meant... could they?

"Have you seen Cili or Zofia?" Hajna asked.

The Graces wanted to bring _them_ into this too? "I was training with Vorador a short while ago and saw Zofia. I imagine she and Vorador are conversing."

"Well it is good that Vorador is occupied. These such things make him uncomfortable," Anci said, smiling up at him. Lorant awkwardly returned the smile and allowed himself to be dragged down the hall. What kind of thing was so awful that it would make _Vorador_ uncomfortable?

__

Vorador was looking at her sorrowfully. Zofia just stood, glaring. The truth compulsion ability stirred hotly through her blood, begging to be used in a more spectacular fashion. The adrenaline rush of anger fueled her power, so her power encouraged the anger to continue. "Zofie, I am so sorry," Vorador whispered. Her anger softened slightly, and pushed her magic to the back of her soul. The lack of it left her feeling drawn and tired. Vorador reached out to touch her cheek, Zofia moved smoothly out of reach and turned from him.

"I do not want your apologies, brother. Please... leave me alone."

"I cannot do that, Zofia. You are not yourself. Between this new power and," his voice dropped slightly, "Evike's passing-" The power rose again with his words, finding a new source of anger.

"I would imagine you were pleased about that," Zofia murmured acidly. "Mother barely tolerated you, after all, why would you not be glad of her death?"

Vorador's eyes narrowed in anger. He held no ill will towards Evike and Zofia knew that. "Will this conversation pass in insults or do you honestly wish to resolve your problem?"

She laughed harshly. "Problem? What problem do you speak of?" Zofia crossed her arms over her chest. "Why should you _not _be glad of her death? She did not treat you well. She did not treat Father or me very well either," Zofia grimaced, her glare gaining more heat. The power was rising in her, reaching out slowly. "Did she love either of us enough to live?" A knife of sorrow cut through her soul, weakening the anger for a moment. "Apparently not..." the young Ancient murmured.

"But... perhaps you are correct," Zofia continued in Vorador's stunned silence. "Perhaps I _do _need to talk. As you said, there are questions that I wish you would answer... we will continue this discussion. Why _are _you the only one of your kind? How did father gain by drinking your blood?" she murmured.

Vorador's expression instantly became guarded. "What do you mean?" he asked. She smiled ironically at his attempt to be coy. This new ability rode the course of her soul's power, unchecked because she did not know how to control it. The truth compulsion wished to be made use of, sought the most powerful emotion to maintain itself. Zofia was wholly unaware of her danger.

With her mother's knowledge had come half-buried memories. Whispered conversations that Zofia had overheard as a child and not understood. Now she did, and the anger she felt at their content was fuel for the blaze of her anger.

_"You left them to die? I explained everything I had done and yet you left them all to die?" Janos said, his voice soft, but enraged. _

"Our own_ actions we can control, and trust," another answered. "We respect your attempt at righting what you did to the human and we leave him alive... or _existing_ because it was his sacrifice that showed us how to become fertile again. As Zofia seems normal and healthy, we deemed it safe for others to follow where you led."_

"So you take their lives to give to others."

"You_ took a _life _as well. Many of us have chosen the unwanted creatures of humanity to give new life to our race. You would see _those _brought back in the way you brought Vorador?"_

"Father berated some of the other elders for killing humans. Why would they kill at all?" Zofia murmured in a chillingly calm voice.

Vorador's expression betrayed his uneasiness. "Zofie-"

"Do not call me that," she whispered. She didn't want tenderness right now. She wanted to stay angry, to hear the answers to her questions. "There is something about you, is there not? When father changed you, something happened and the other elders began killing humans. They would not have done such a thing unless they had something to gain. So why?"

Her brother sighed, looking at the floor of the dome for a moment before meeting her eyes again. "I have promised not to tell," he answered.

"What happened, Vorador?" she whispered. Zofia unleashed the new power, let it rise like a cloud of perfume from her soul, thick and cloying in its intensity. It settled upon the bronze-skinned man. She sensed her will seeping into the core of his mind, and knew how it felt to him; a pleasantly light sensation that slightly disconnected the mouth from the brain. Vorador recognized it and glared at her, still refusing to speak. Zofia's jaw clenched and her lips curled almost in a snarl. Leaving subtlety behind, she loosed the power completely, which eagerly pressed itself upon Vorador's will and mind, commanding him to reveal the information she wanted.

He sucked in a sharp breath. Surprised at the sensation, Vorador put a hand to his head, shook it briefly in an attempt to relive the dizziness he now felt. Her power made no mark upon his body, but the feeling was similar to that of a hand squeezing around the body, beneath the skin, and a whirlwind sweeping through his mind. Vorador fought it, fought _her_, pushing back against the compulsion to speak. His power struck out against the 'hand' that incased his will and his mind stood with the solidity of a mountain against the tornado snatching at his thoughts. 

The vampire stumbled over to Zofia, who winced at the blows Vorador's will made against her power. He put one clawed hand around her upper arm, another cupped her cheek. Zofia stood rigid, holding her power, and glared into his glowing cat-like eyes. 

"Stop this, Zofia. You have no control yet," he whispered, it was a plea, but for _her_, not himself.

The young Ancient stared angrily into Vorador's eyes. "You opened the door, brother. Do not blame me for walking into it."

Zofia saw his eyes tear in the instant before they closed. "Then do not _you _blame _me _for removing you in such a manner."

Janos stood alone, looking out of a window in the Circle's audience chamber, deep in thought. The Pillar Guardians stood in a small circle at the middle of the room. Their current topic of conversation was not one that Janos cared to discuss; Evike's recent death. 

He missed her terribly, and yet her passing had somehow given him a sense of relief. 

_"My love?" She laid back against the cushions piled on their bed, reaching out for his hand. "I move into the next cycle of existence. Soon there shall be one less of us," she gasped in a breath, "to hunt for," she smiled slightly. Her tone was ironic, as her sense of humor had always been. "I know you shall take care of Zofia, but allow her to take care of you as well. She shall survive... you both shall... be sure that you survive _together_...." Janos took her hand and laid a soft kiss on her lips. Evike smiled lightly and closed her eyes. Then she slipped peacefully into death._

Perhaps they _would _survive, but just now the loss was debilitating. It felt as if someone had carved out a piece of his soul and left the hole behind. 

"Janos?" a soft voice called. He turned slowly and met the compassionate eyes of the other Guardians. "I feel a disturbance from above..." Rendor said. The Pillar of Conflict sighed and shook his head. Janos looked at the other Guardian, confused. Who would be fighting, and what relevance did it have to _him_?

Angyalka, the Pillar of the Mind, stepped up to him. "It is Vorador and Zofia who battle, and their fight is not merely vocal. Nor is it a sparring match." 

"What?" he murmured. He couldn't remember either of his children fighting for a reason _other _than to spar. And while it was not unheard of for either of them to argue, they had never done so with _each other_. "Why would they-"

"Wait-" Rendor said, his eyes distant. One eyebrow quirked. "Vorador has won."

"Zofia is not hurt, is she?" Ibolya asked quickly. As the Pillar of Nature, she was the Guardian closest to healing and the earth. She also was the Guardian who felt most strongly that Vorador was an affront to the natural order, and was not afraid to speak her opinion.

Rendor shrugged. "No more than Vorador," he said lightly. Suddenly he caught the look on Ibolya's face. "They shall heal," he assured her, a bit of annoyance in his tone. Rendor, as the fledglings' primary fighting instructor, knew the vampire better and had a kinder opinion of him. 

Once again the Guardians brought around the topic of his vampiric son. On another day, Janos would have been annoyed. Today he was simply tired. "Who began the fight?" Janos interrupted.

"Zofia," Rendor said, gazing into the middle distance. A few of the Guardians revealed surprise at this information. Janos passed a hand over his forehead and turned towards the door. Angyalka caught his arm as he went. "Janos, be easy with her," she shook her head gently. "Zofia has come into her full power at last- it is not surprising that she would be a bit... confrontational. She pressed Vorador for answers to a few uncomfortable questions."

Janos grimaced slightly. He knew exactly what Angyalka was speaking of. The Reaver Guardian glanced around the room. "And shall I tell her the answers to those questions?" he asked, looking at the Pillar of Balance.

Sebestyen looked at him somberly for a moment. "Yes." He looked down for a moment before meeting Janos' eyes again. "She will understand our decision to keep her brethren in the dark, and she shall hold with it." There was no threat in the Balance Guardian's voice, only sure knowledge and trust in Zofia's character. Janos nodded once and made his exit. 

The Circle of Nine watched as the Tenth Guardian slipped out of the audience chamber and let the door swing closed behind him.

"And so it begins," Treszka murmured. The Pillar of Death was silent for a moment. "Evike's passing was the first of many, and though time is not my area of knowledge," she nodded gracefully to Jergo, "I do not think it will be long before the rest of us join her."

Angyalka turned slightly and slipped her hand into her husband's. Jergo squeezed it briefly and looked up at his brethren. "Cili has had another vision," the Pillar of Time told them. "It is without doubt that I tell you that our course in time remains constant. In less than four hundred years, our generation shall die out, leaving the Reaver Guardian alone."

There were startled gasps and clenched hands to meet the announcement. "What of the children?" Oszkar asked. Jergo turned to the Pillar of Dimension. 

"Killed," he said bluntly. "By the allies of our sworn enemies." The Pillar of Time fought to keep his voice steady amongst the horrified expressions of the other Guardians. "When our numbers grow too few, the Dark One shall send his minions into this world and finish the deed he promised to the Hylden long ago. All of our kin shall die... except, perhaps, for Zofia." Then he gave a smile that was more than half-grimace. "What demon would not claim a Wisdom Keeper for its pet?"

"How can you speak so calmly of this?" The Pillar of Energy asked, tears falling from her eyes. "You _too _have a daughter, Jergo," Vicuska cried. Oszkar moved close to her, brushing a hand lightly over hers. The curve of his wing came in contact with the other Guardian's, giving comfort. 

"Yes," Angyalka, answered for her husband. "We too have a daughter." Her eyes blazed with anger. The Pillar of the Mind had been forced to drag her husband back from the brink of despair on more than on occasion. That he had felt it necessary to keep up a mask of detachment from his knowledge made it worse. "We too have a daughter," she repeated. "And Jergo has viewed her death," Angyalka whispered angrily, tears forming in her eyes. "As he had viewed _mine_. As he has viewed _yours_," she said, stepping forward, towards Vicuska. As he had viewed _all _of our deaths, several times over, in the effort of finding a way to escape them." Angyalka stood toe to toe with the Energy Guardian, her glare hot enough to melt stone, and Vicuska lowered her eyes in shame. 

"There must be something that can be done," The Pillar of States said, speaking for the first time. Istvan's voice was calm, but held a desperate note of hope. 

Jergo sighed and nodded. "There is an old prophesy-"

"- It was a sign from the Gods," Anci was saying. "We knew without doubt that this day would see us unify our abilities."

"Do you think we should seek out Cili?" Hajna asked her sisters. Mara shook her head without looking back at them.

"We do not have enough time. The others may fall too deeply asleep and we shan't be able to tell if the spell works at all," the eldest murmured over her shoulder.

"What spell, _exactly_, are you planning to attempt?" Lorant ventured.

"Ah, that, my friend, is a surprise," Anci smiled mischievously. 

As they neared an arched doorway, Lorant finally decided to put his foot down, and stopped. The girls were still hanging on to Lorant's arms and lurched forward slightly when he did not move with them. "Spoil it, please," he asked sternly. "I am weary, aching and my level of anxiety has been rising steadily since we began this conversation."

Mara, who had stopped and turned back to them, gave him a look that was as stunned as the expressions on her sister's faces. She was the one to ask. "It has? Why?"

Lorant finally managed to extract his arms from the two girls. "You say you wish me to sleep with you, in front of a group of our peers, while you attempt a new power. I believe it safe to say that that scenario would cause most people anxiety."

"We never said that," Mara exclaimed, blushing. 

"You most certainly did," Lorant informed her.

"We never uttered the _word_ 'sleep'," she cried indignantly.

"That is a technicality, considering the fact that there are a precious few alternative meanings to the idea."

"We never-" 

His eyebrows bent downward in annoyance. "Then _what_, may I ask, did you _expect _me to think?" he interrupted.

"Leave that argument," Hajna broke in. "Very quickly I shall explain," she said, rolling her eyes at the young warrior. "We have bid several of the other fledglings to convene in the room before us. They are currently sleeping, or are _almost _asleep. As the three of us believe we have _finally _managed the trick of using our voices to cast spells, we need a witness to prove the fact. To this end, we have employed _you_."

Now he was somewhat intrigued. "Me? Why me?"

Anci blushed. "You were the first person we saw," she admitted sheepishly.

Lorant laughed, taking no offense. "What do you wish to accomplish?" he asked them. 

"We shall awaken the others with our song, and with it, we shall cause them to maintain that alert state," Hajna smiled.

Finally Lorant returned the smile. "Now _that_, I shall enjoy watching." Mara turned and easily pushed the door open. Anci pointed him to a low-backed chair and they left to stand on a raised dais at the front of the room. Lorant sank into the chair and looked around. There were around a dozen fledglings sprawled on a mound of fur blankets in the middle of the room. Some were sitting cross-legged on cushions, yawning. Neci raised a limp hand from the blanket he was using as a pillow and waved. Lorant grinned and nodded to the weapon-smith. Most of the others were sleeping peacefully; each of them were of middling power in magic. 

"At last we shall be underway," Anci murmured to the Ancients. The fledglings who were still awake looked up and attempted to pay attention to the sisters as they began to sing. 

"Your careful help three sisters request,

this is why they disturb your rest

The day is new, 

the house is waking, 

should you sleep too long,

your head will soon be aching."

Lorant grinned at the lyrics and felt his weariness catching up to him. He covered a yawn with his hand and leaned his cheek on his fist. They began the chorus again and followed with a subtly different stanza. 

"Your careful help three sisters request,

this is why they disturb your rest

The day is new, 

the house is waking,

should you stay asleep, 

your bed will soon be shaking."

Lulled by the harmony of their voices, Lorant leaned heavily on his fist and slowly fell asleep.

Cili woke once again, this time, peacefully, but alone. The fear that closed in was caused, not by her environment, but by the memory of what she had seen. Her parents had come to calm her after she had risen screaming after regaining the memories. Her mother had seen the vision through with her, holding her tightly, and sung her to sleep after she had witnessed the entire ordeal. Now, she imagined, they were speaking of it with the rest of the circle. There was a brief and childish impulse to call upon them, which she quickly smothered. Their meeting was important, and although she might have been able to find the room by herself, in the time it would take, her parents would most likely return to her.

The young Ancient rose from her bed, wrapping a blanket carefully over her wings. Cili sat down in a backless chair, shivering slightly, remembering the dark being that had tormented her. This vision had been different from the others. Instead of existing within the vision as a disembodied entity, or viewing the event through someone else's eyes, she had been there. She, _herself_, had made the journey down those stairs, into the darkness, in the midst of her distraught peers. Cili had descended into the heart of evil, drawing ever nearer to a presence greater than any that existed within Nosgoth. She had done this, or rather, she _would _do this. 

A sense of panic rose in her chest at the thought and she reached out with that part of her that sensed the life-essences of other beings. She reached out, closing her unseeing eyes, and found them; the other Ancients within Haven. Some of her people slept, others wandered the halls or worked at their crafts or leisure activities. 

Cili sensed them all in a warm, seething mass of life, and felt her fear ebb. She was far from alone here, and no other sensation was better used to convince her. 

Cili may not have been able to see as her peers did, but she retained the ability to sense and view other beings. Truly familiar essences she could identify, and of these, she could read emotions, levels of energy, and awareness. All Ancients possessed this ability, but none had developed it to the extent that Cili had. In a hundred years she had learned to distinguish souls, and many things about them, by detecting subtle changes in color and strength of a life-essence. The young Seer looked for one that was close enough to be carefully examined and found it; took comfort in it. 

This person was one of the first she had ever been able to identify. Cili heard footsteps for a moment before a hand brushed the short locks of her hair from her forehead and a weight settled on the bed beside her.

The Guardian of Time knelt beside her, opening his arms as Cili leaned forward to embrace him. Cili clutched at her father in desperation, shaking, her face pressed to his soft tunic. He held her, and Cili sensed his hatred of the fear he was unable to take away; one where the only thing he could do was to hold her as they waited for it to pass.

"What was my vision?" she asked. "I could not understand what was happening..." she watched his life-essence ripple with apprehension. "Father-"

"Cili," he interrupted, "there is no preparing for what you face." Jergo wiped her cheek, removing a tear she had not realized she'd shed. "I could not bear to see you go through life with the knowledge I possess, even if only a small part."

"Something terrible shall happen to me in the future, father," Cili murmured. Her face grew solemn. "You and I both know this. I believe my imagination can produce many things to fill in the spaces of my life between now and the time of this vision; most of which will be far worse than the reality. Would it not be better for me to know the true future than to imagine a more horrible false one?"

He was silent for a time. "I must think on it, Cili," he whispered. "That is all that I can promise." The Seer nodded gently.

"Zofia-" Cili paused, gathering her thoughts. "She stood alone before that creature," she said, shivering slightly. "All of us, the fledglings were with her- but so frightened... and she stood before us.... How could we do that, father? Allow her to face that- that," Cili couldn't find a word for the being she'd sensed, "without our aid?"

"Fear does awful things to the mind, daughter, as well as the soul," he murmured. "It can freeze one in their tracks when they should act... can deny one the ability to think. What you faced in that vision... anyone would shrink back from such a thing."

"Not I," Cili whispered. The Seer bared her fangs unconsciously, suddenly ashamed at the way she had acted during her vision. Cili fixed her resolve, promising that the next time she was faced with that scenario, she would act like the Ancient she was; proud, strong, a warrior who had been born by warriors. 

Jergo combed her hair back lightly with his talons. "Only a daughter of mine would choose to be a Seer, and not a prophet," he said. The gentle words were tinted with amusement, pride, and a small bit of sorrow. "Did I ever explain to you the difference, Cili?"

She shook her head in answer.

"A prophet speaks of the future in terms that the _Gods _understand, but _we _may only attempt to grasp. A prophet must have another person nearby when they begin to speak, for after the prophesy ends, they have no memory of the words uttered. Even if there _is _another who may transcribe the prophesy, such a thing is nearly incomprehensible to earthly beings. One only understands the prophesy _after _the event has occurred.

"A seer, by comparison, _experiences _the future. Every sound, smell... every sensation is there for them to take in, and they are never able to forget. The more they knowledge they gain, the more they can impart to others." His voice grew softer. "There is pain inherent in the Seer's role, because they are able to give more information to their fellows. 

"And although it was destiny that chose the burden you bear- would you not have chosen the same for yourself?"

Cili nodded, smiling slightly. Had she been given a choice between a pain-free existence and being of more assistance to her people, she would have chosen to help. It was her nature to give more than she gained, and perhaps it was because of this that she was what she was. "Father," she murmured, "did you know what I would be, before I was born?"

The hand at her scalp stilled for a moment, then began to move once more. "When I looked into the Time Streams, one year before the day of your birth, I saw your mother holding a small bundle. I saw pale blue skin, tiny hands... hair as vibrant as her own, and enormous eyes looking up at her. That was the first time I saw you. I did not see your power, your destiny- only you.

"I saw my daughter, and for the first time in my life, I was impatient to meet the future." Jergo kissed her on the forehead and Cili's arms tightened around him. 

"I love you, father," she murmured.

"And I, you."

Zofia was lying flat on her back, wings unfolded slightly in response to a threat, and had no idea how she had gotten there. Her head was ringing and her body throbbed ever so slightly with reaction. Bronze skin appeared in her field of vision, slit-pupiled eyes stared warily down at her. 

_What happened?_ Zofia lifted a hand to her head, noticed that it was shaking. Vorador stared down at her, his gaze reproving. _Vorador- he... he struck me._ He had not used _physical _force, but the force of his soul. Zofia remembered she had been lost within her power tightening it about her brother in a thick, but barely rigid shield. One well-placed strike was all that had been needed for Vorador to shatter the spell she'd used against him. The backlash of the compulsion failing had dealt her a stunning blow. She wasn't badly hurt, but like her power, her control over her body and emotions had shattered. Zofia breathed deeply, shuddering, and placed a hand on the dome, attempting to sit up. Her arm trembled, unable to hold her weight and the young Ancient slipped back onto the dome. Of all her faculties, that which controlled her presence of mind had been dealt the most damage. 

Vorador examined her, saw that his counterattack had been effective, and knelt beside her. He took Zofia's hand in his and stroked her hair back from her face, making soothing noises in the back of his throat. Vorador pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes closed in pain. "I am sorry," he whispered, "everything is alright... it is over...." Vorador apologized again and again, but Zofia didn't understand.

She hung on to him, weakly, whimpering at her pain and confusion. Her perceptions were like those of a child. She was hurting, her brother had hurt her, but it was over, he was repentant... she was safe now. Zofia began reaching out, her dazed mind recollecting the scattered fragments of her understanding. A shadow fell over them and Vorador drew back. Zofia looked up as another face moved into her sight, golden eyes piercing her to the soul. Janos shook his head sadly and gathered his daughter, dazed by shock, into his arms.

"I had never imagined you capable of a temper tantrum, Zofie," he murmured soothingly, rubbing her lower back. "You know better than to use a newly formed power without guidance. You know that as well as you know not to use power for you own gain." The fledgling looked up at her father in shock. Zofia realized exactly what she had done and a sick wave of shame rolled over her. Then Zofia _also _remembered how close her power had come to consuming her and began shaking violently. The young Ancient looked over at her brother, tears of guilt collecting in her eyes.

"Vorador," she whispered, tentatively reaching out for him. A clawed hand took hers without hesitation. 

"You are as often a victim of poor judgment as the rest of us, little sister."

She squeezed his hand. "I am sorry..." she continued in that tiny voice. Pinkish tears stained her cheeks as he came closer and Zofia was enfolded on both sides by the comfort of a loving embrace. 

"I forgive you," he replied. There was a soft chuckle. "I know how badly your judgment must have been affected to have thought you could best me in a contest of wills."

She smiled slightly, then wiped the expression from her face. Zofia looked up at Janos. 

"Father, I-"

"The fault is mine," he sighed, touching her cheek. "I was not expecting this to happen so quickly... and your mother-"

Zofia's expression grew horrified and she looked at Vorador, "The things I said to you, and about _her_-"

"The matter is done, Zofie," he said, shaking his head slightly.

"No, I- I was angry and I said-"

"What?" Janos asked, cupping her face in his palms, his voice infinitely gentle. 

Zofia forced words beyond the knot in her throat, "I said-" she swallowed thickly, "that Vorador was glad of mother's death because she had been unkind to him." Zofia closed her eyes, afraid to see anger in her father's gaze. Her voice shook as she continued, "I said that she died because she did not love us enough to live- I-"

"You were angry," Vorador said, excusing her.

"But I-"

"Zofie," Janos murmured. "Zofia, look at me." Her eyes glowed softly, shining with tears. "There is no fault in your anger, or being angry with her. The only fault is in letting it consume you." He searched her eyes for a moment. "I think you learned that today."

"I love her so much, I just-"

"I know that, and so does she," he smiled sadly. "We are allowed to be enraged at someone and still love them. Was that what caused the argument?" Janos asked, his gaze moving from Zofia to Vorador.

The vampire gave a roguish grin. "In part, yes, but I shall leave you to discuss the other cause. I wish to have a rematch once you have had actual training, Zofie," he said, winking at his adopted sister. Zofia smiled again, the guilty look had been lessened, but was still there. "I shall go then," Vorador murmured, "...the sun has almost risen..." he said, almost as an afterthought. He kissed Zofia's cheek and bowed briefly to Janos before turning and swinging himself over the edge of the dome.

"I imagined he left so I would not ask any other questions," Zofia murmured. Finally able to stand unaided, she pulled back to look directly at her father.

"He felt no need to stay. Zofia, you know you may ask me anything-"

"I had no wish to make you uncomfortable," she interrupted. "And mother," her breath caught for a moment, "mother discouraged most questions surrounding Vorador's origins."

"Ask me now," Janos said, his face solemn.

Zofia closed her eyes briefly before meeting her father's gaze. "Why did you grow angry with the elders when I was young? Why did they choose to kill humans, and what did those things have to do with me? What does Vorador's change have to do with me?"

Janos sighed, his eyes holding a depthless sorrow that Zofia was unsure she'd ever seen before. "You know that our bloodthirst is a curse put upon us by our ancient enemy- the Hylden," he said. Zofia nodded once and he continued. "Have you ever wondered _why_ they put such a curse upon us?"

Zofia looked confused. The question seemed simple enough. "Killing is not in our nature," she answered. "At the end of the Great War, we did not even kill our sworn enemies; we bound them in another dimension. What better revenge than to force us to kill for our own survival?"

Janos was shaking his head gently at her, his eyes closed. "That is not the most devastating aspect of the curse, for while we could live by feeding on the blood of animals, there was one thing that only the blood of another intelligent being could give us." He placed on hand on Zofia's shoulder, caressed his daughter's cheek with the other. "What things must a species do to survive?"

"Do?" she repeated, thinking. "They must obtain food, shelter, and they must reproduce," she murmured, looking for confirmation that the answer was correct. The sorrowful look was back. It was then that she understood. Zofia's mouth opened slowly. "You changed Vorador... and not even a year later I was born. The other elders killed, knowing it was the only way for them to-" she stopped, unable to finish the sentence. Tears pooled in her eyes once again as she realized the horrible truth. Zofia struggled to regain control of her emotions. She looked at her feet and blinked back the moisture in her eyes. "The other fledglings live only because others have died. The elders knew exactly what they were doing." Zofia looked back up at her father. "How could they choose to do such a thing?"

"You would have to ask them," Janos murmured, shaking his head slightly. His hands rested lightly on his daughter's shoulders. Zofia covered his hands with her own.

"Vorador's death was an accident."

Janos let out a small laugh. "Many of the elders would say the same about his 'birth.'"

Zofia's return grin was wry. "His was not the only one."

Janos pulled her close. "Hardly," he said. "You were a wonderful side-effect. One we had given up hope of ever seeing."

Her body shuddered against his with a slight, choking laugh. "In a way, I caused the deaths of forty-nine humans, father. Is that something of which I should be proud?"

His arms tightened around Zofia's shoulders. "Do not _ever _blame yourself for the choices of others, Zofia. You already take too much blame for your _own_ mistakes. If anyone is owed the blame for Vorador's state of being, _I_ am. The other elders who are now parents made their own decisions, as all beings do." He paused, spoke again when he received no reply. "Do you understand?" he asked, softening his voice. Zofia nodded slightly against his chest. Janos sighed. 

"When did you plan on telling us?" she murmured. "After the first Binding Ceremony, when the couple began to wonder why they were unable to conceive?"

"We wanted to keep you free of this burden for as long a time as we could." Janos, said. He stroked her hair lightly, kept his hand at the back of her head when Zofia pulled away from him. "It will be a difficult thing to bear this knowledge alone," he murmured, waiting to see if she understood.

She did. "I am a Wisdom Keeper, father," Zofia smiled. "I always bear knowledge alone." Janos' heart swelled with pride. He kissed his daughter's forehead and hugged her again. A tear slid from Zofia's eye, soaking into Janos' vest. The Reaver Guardian comforted his daughter as she wept for her lost childhood.

Lorant woke to an angry feminine voice and a sound slap to his shoulder. He grunted in response to the hit and looked up at Mara. "What?"

"You fell asleep!" she cried indignantly.

"And the others _remained_ asleep," Hajna sighed. 

"Well, we know now that we were wrong. We have _not _turned the trick after all," Anci murmured.

Lorant's gaze traveled over their dejected faces and he spoke. "...Perhaps if you were to sing loudly... or quicken the song?"

Mara glared at him. "What would that prove except that we could keep an audience awake with our voices alone? We sang softly and at a slower pace because we wished to prove only our _powers _were keeping everyone awake."

"I am only attempting to help-" Lorant began defensively.

"If I may pose a suggestion?" a voice said from the door. The Graces turned and Lorant leaned over the side of his chair. Angyalka, Guardian of the Mind, strode unhurriedly forward, smiling at the fledglings.

"Lady," Anci murmured respectfully, "what brings you-"

"I sensed your discontent, children," she said, coming to a stop before them. "This ability to transmit a spell through song is possible within you because of the three talents you share," she said kindly. "Mara searches for the minds you wish to influence, Hajna lulls them into a suggestive state, and Anci sends the message." Angyalka clasped her hands lightly before her. "Therefore, instead of beginning as one, Mara should sing alone until she makes the connection, whereupon Hajna should join in, and when you both feel comfortable, Anci will complete the spell."

Mara's eyes widened. "Alone?" she asked. The word emerged from her mouth with no more volume than a mouse's squeak.

Angyalka smiled. "Only to begin. Although you must start by yourself, it is when your sisters join you that the magic takes hold. Trust in yourself. Sing clearly, distinctly, and do not be afraid of your audience." The Pillar of the Mind took in the sight of the sleeping fledglings with a wry grin on her face. "They do not look so dangerous just now... do they?"

Cili wandered down the hall, one hand held before her, following the sound of music and the sense of her mother's presence. She noticed a warm presence, one that, after the vision, was now _very _familiar, approach. A hand slipped into hers.

"Cili," Zofia murmured, her voice gentle, friendly. "Why do you walk alone?" The other Ancient had always treated her as a younger sister, disliked the idea of the Seer being without a guide. 

Cili smiled. "The more I practice walking alone, the closer I come to being self-sufficient. Some day in the future, I shall walk as all the fledglings do, and those who do not know me shall be unaware of my lack in sight." The young Ancient examined Zofia and noticed some unresolved sorrow within her friend. "Are you well?" Cili asked. The other's essence brightened slightly, as if Zofia were attempting to put on a joyful face for Cili's benefit. The Seer was not fooled. 

"I am better than I was yesterday," Zofia murmured.

"Are you certain-?" Cili murmured.

Zofia let out a shaking laugh. "Do you know... I think I have wept more in these last two days than I have in the last century?" Before Cili could respond, Zofia cleared her throat and changed topics, "I heard the Graces singing and became curious." Cili felt a slight pull on her hand and moved forward with Zofia. A breath of air passed her face as a pair of doors opened and the trio of voices grew in volume.

Suddenly Cili felt more alert, more energetic. Her spirit lifted within her and she smiled without knowing why. "What is happening?" she asked Zofia.

"There are a dozen fledglings in the room..." 

Cili felt a change in Zofia's concentration and knew her friend was using magic. Without warning, Zofia's life-essence became even warmer, more joyous, and greatly amused. "The Graces are casting magic through song. The fledglings are all waking up; Neci, Lorant, Aurelia, Katakin, Izsak, the Graces are waking them from their slumber."

Angyalka began speaking, clearly audible over the trio's song. "Endowed with the power of the Pillars that protect our land, and by the Circle that protects those Pillars- I rename Mara, Hajna and Anci," she said. "Having achieved the full potential of which their power is capable, and requiring only more proficiency in their art, the Three Graces are now the Sirens." There was the sound of cheering and applause from the other fledglings. Cili's attention turned to the three young Ancients standing at the front of the room. Their souls sang in harmony with their voices, and Cili smiled at their joy. 

Angyalka caught sight of her and Zofia, standing near the door, and a voice echoed within her mind. _:By the same power,: _her mother said, _:I rename Zofia Audron.: _Cili felt the hand holding hers grow tense. The Seer wondered bewilderedly why her mother was speaking to the both of them. _:Having received the gift of her mother's wisdom, the Reaver Guardian's Daughter is now the Wisdom Keeper.:_

Cili felt a flash of recognition at the title and squeezed Zofia's hand. However, standing in the room, a song of joy and revival surrounding them, the Ancients' Seer had no fear. Cili felt Zofia's attention turn to her. There they stood, the eldest and youngest of the fledglings, and Cili smiled. 

"Let the future come," she whispered, "for we do not face it alone." Zofia stilled in surprise, and Cili caught her in a sudden embrace. "You shall _not _be alone, sister," Cili whispered. "I promise."

====================================

Syvia- Part of that chapter was caused by my own anger at someone I love. You can rage, you can scream, but in the end, it makes no difference if someone is set on the path they've chosen. You're angry, and you have the _right_ to be angry, but it doesn't solve anything. *Zofie and Cili hug her. She sighs.* You just have to go on with your life, and take joy from the time they're still with you, or from the _people _who are still with you. 

*Lorant walks in with bananas and whipped cream on his face. His expression is indignant.*

Syvia- *she catches sight of him and laughs* You have to remember to smile, and laugh, every chance you get.

Lorant- I'm the comic relief, aren't I? 

Cili- Did it take you _this long _to figure that out? *she grins*

Lorant- *rolls his eyes* Where to next?

Syvia- Well, we're taking a slight detour from 500 B.C. in the next chapter.

Zofia- How slight?

Syvia- Uh... at _least _900 years, and possibly more? *she grins sheepishly*

Lorant- *slaps his forehead, which squishes* Oy!

Syvia- Yep, and it's going to take a while.

Zofia- What do you mean?

Syvia- This- *she turns to the readers* Take a good look at these three- *she smiles, indicating the three Ancients.* because the next time you see them, they're going to be a bit older. ^_^ *they grin, embarrassed* But for now, they're all going to get into the notepad- *she grins and holds it out*

Cili- The notepad?

Syvia- I'm going out-of-town and you're all coming with me! *she grins. The Ancients look at each other and shrug. The jump into the notepad, shouting excitedly. Syvia turns to the readers and grins.* When I get back, it'll be with another chapter. Leave me some nice reviews to read, won't you? ^_^ See ya later! *she turns around and disappears*


	7. Interlude Growth and Change

Copyright © 2002 by Syvia (Aka Rebecca K. Friedrick). All Rights Reserved.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. Adojan the Hylden and all of the Ancients except Janos are my brain children. If you want the full list- go to the dictionary in the back. ^_^

Author's Notes: *grins* Don't expect too many of these short chapters. They're just transitional pieces. We're going to depart from 500 and 1649 B.C. for now, and while 500 B.C. will become quite important when we finally get back there- we're leaving 1649 behind forever. *smiles* 

Interlude

Growth and Change

__

Nosgoth ~ ? ~ ?

_Sudden tears slipped from the young Ancient's eyes. Zofia wrapped her arms around Cili in return._

"Thank you," Zofia whispered. Cili nodded, still holding the older fledgling.

The image of Zofia, wrapped in Cili's embrace, faded slowly from the basin and was replaced by an image of gently swirling grey mist. 

The cloaked and hooded figure on one side of the basin still toyed absently with the blade in her hand. The cut on her finger was gone. The hooded one studied the other form at the basin. 

She was cloaked as well against the cold, but her hood was down, her face revealed by the candlelight. The woman's hair was long and a shining black; sharp contrast to the pale skin of her face. Her eyes were an even _sharper _contrast to that hair, silver jewels that held much life and too much knowledge for her years. She looked young, but her eyes did not. 

The woman _was _young. Although not as young as she appeared, she was human; and much younger than her companion. 

"Enjoying the view?" the girl asked wryly in a slow, cultured drawl. She raised quicksilver eyes from the basin to look at the other woman. 

The hooded figure chuckled softly in response to the teasing. "_Marveling _at the view. Or rather, the _change_ of view," she clarified.

"Hmmm." The girl studied her hands, resting on the stone carvings. Both women examined the ten slim fingers and small, rounded nails. The girl looked up and smiled slightly. "I rather like it. It is strange to be human again, and yet remember what it was to be otherwise. It is strange to remember childhood and realize what a strange process it was."

"When in your past life- you had forgotten it entirely?"

The young woman nodded. "The promise of growing old is interesting as well," she smiled suddenly, "although I _have _done it before. But I am enjoying this life. I feel no wish to receive immortality again." She looked up at her companion. "How does it feel to have remained constant in body for thousands of years?" she asked curiously.

"I remember childhood; the growing and changing of my body," the hooded one smiled. She cast her gaze on one cloven hand and moved it gently through the air, watching the play of light and shadow on her clawed fingers. "And although my body has retained its form for many centuries, I do not find this existence tiresome. My mind is in a constant state of evolution."

The girl smiled wryly. "'You learn something new everyday?'" she quoted, her tone derisive. 

"Something like that," the hooded woman chuckled. "Do you yet remember how to work the Pool?" she asked, going back to the subject at hand. The hooded one presented the ceremonial knife, handle first, to the girl. She pressed the needle-sharp tip to her index finger without drawing blood.

"I do not remember _why_ it works, but I remember how to work it." She pierced her skin without hesitation and let a ruby-colored drop fall into the grey mist, creating ripples that traveled to the outermost edge of the Pool. "You call up the memory within yourmind and it appears in the Pool.

"The magic of the Pool is strong enough to retain any recreation of _any _memory it has ever shown. If you know what you look for, you may view the memories of another." 

More ripples traveled over the surface of the Pool and the mist in the basin began to swirl once again. 

===================================

Syvia- Thanks for the review, Das Boot! This is its result.

Lorant- *looking up at the date listing* What's with the question marks?

Syvia- I don't want to give those bits of information away just yet.

Lorant- Ahhh. Uh... then why didn't you do that for the Prologue?

Syvia- Hmm.... *runs back and edits, comes back* Anything else?

Lorant- *laughs* Nothing that I can think of. 


	8. The Eternal Prison

Copyright © 2002 by Syvia (Aka Rebecca K. Friedrick). All Rights Reserved.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. Adojan the Hylden and all of the Ancients except Janos are my brain children. If you want the full list- check out the dictionary in the back. ^_^ 

I used the Prima strategy guides for BO2 & SR2 for pics of the games and info. What info? Well, what the writers called the Prison Guards (Wardens) among other things. ^_^

Author's Notes: 

****

If you've never seen the Eternal Prison section of Blood Omen 2- I go into quite a bit of detail about some of it here. Biiiiiiiiiiiig spoilers!!!

And Thanks to-

Divine Shadow of FF.net for posting this thread- http://pub6.ezboard.com/fnosgothfrm12.showMessageRange?topicID=459.topic&start=1&stop=20 

and putting up pics of various things in BO2. There were a few screenshots which I found _very _useful. That pic of the Warden was especially good. ~_^

Ranmyaku, again (if I already have) for writing up the dialogue for the game. *hugs* Chapter 8 helped me immensely! 

*hugs Crazydragon & Esoteric to death* Both of you have helped me through bad cases of writer's block and led me to new and useful ideas! Thanks for listening to me jabber about this, that, and all those other things! I love you guys! ^_^

*Raz and Adojan stand beside Syvia, looking up at the storyline. A soft expression of wonderment crosses the authoress' face as she gains a new idea. The storyline doubles in length.*

Adojan- *jumps* What the hell just happened? 

*Syvia giggles happily, reading over the new storyline. Raziel does the same, looking somewhat less than thrilled.*

Raziel- Um...

Syvia- Don't worry about it, Raz, you'll survive.

Raziel- Yes, I realize that, but-

Syvia- _Trust _me!

Adojan- *quirks an eyebrow* Riiiiiiiiiight....

Chapter 6

The Eternal Prison

__

Nosgoth ~ 37 A.C. ~ The Sickened World

Again the vortex. The world moved in a turbulent, unnatural spiral. There was a sense of dizziness; vertigo, now familiar from numerous trips made through the various Time Streaming Chambers of Nosgoth. 

Colored clouds and small bolts of energy whipped about the room, pulling the two occupants of the chamber through time and dimension. In seconds, the whirling slowed and their feet touched down on the glass floor. They left footprints in the dust that had collected upon the clear surface, evidence of the chamber's disuse. 

Raziel came to himself, one hand clutching the shoulder of Moebius' robes. Apparently more than one passenger could travel through a Time Streaming Chamber during a single trip, but physical contact was necessary. Raziel's talons twitched slightly, needing release from their death grip on the violet-colored cloth. The Soul Reaver's gaze was drawn to his hand. He noted the bare white talons, muscle and tendon that could be seen working as the hand moved. 

Raziel concentrated on that hand, the left one, as the confusion caused by his headlong fall through time subsided. It lay poised on the Time Guardian's shoulder as Moebius leaned on his staff and relearned how to stand without aid. 

Raziel concentrated on his cloven, blue, hand. He imagined it rising from its place on Moebius' robes, striking out with super-human swiftness to wrap around the Time Streamer's neck... squeezing... breaking through flesh and bone without effort. These thoughts had passed in mere seconds and Raziel made to act on them.... 

His hand never moved. Moebius shrugged off Raziel's grip and walked towards the five dials on the far wall, seemingly unaware of the violent thoughts passing through the mind of his companion. 

_:Moebius knows quite well the hatred you bear him,: _Mortanius whispered. _:But he is confident that I will not allow you to do him harm.: _The Necromancer's voice, speaking within his mind, felt eerily similar to the Elder God's. Raziel attempted push the comparison from his mind.

__

How will you stop me? Raziel murmured silently, his eyes following the Time Streamer.

There was a soft chuckling that only he could hear. The Pillar of Death's voice was dry as old bones as he spoke again. _:So good to see that the thought of imprisonment has not broken your spirit, Raziel. In any event, you may lower your arm.:_

The Soul Reaver glanced at his limb, which was still suspended in midair, in exactly the same place it had been while sitting on Moebius' shoulder. Raziel's eyes narrowed in anger as Mortanius released him. 

Raziel had been told stories of the Necromancer's power, but, in truth, Kain hadn't known _half _of what the Death Guardian was capable of. Mortanius' power had flowed into the Soul Reaver's being, wrapping him round with threads of power that bound him more tightly than the silken webs the future Zephonim vampires would use to bind their human prey. 

Raziel had believed Moebius to be a manipulator, a puppet master in the play of Nosgoth, controlling his characters with guile and words that writhed and twisted upon their entrance into the brain; and so he was. But if Moebius controlled his puppets with words, then Mortanius controlled his with sheer force. It was the Necromancer's hands that held the strings of the dead, as he held Raziel now.

The threads binding him eased and Raziel dropped his arm to his side. He moved about, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, testing the bounds of the spell. All the while there was an acidic swell of ire rising within him. Perhaps he was this much of a puppet, but a physical demonstration of this idea was humiliation sufficient enough to choke on.

_:Oh please,: _the Necromancer protested lightly, _:you have no throat -how would you contrive to choke on _anything_?: _

A flash of shock and anger traveled through Raziel's mind. _Are you _mocking _me? _he asked disbelievingly.

_:I take humor where I can find it, Raziel. In times such as these, one either laughs, or goes mad. There is, after all, only so much melodrama that a being can take.:_

You take delight in my folly and invite me to do the same?

:I take delight _in _none _of this, child,: _the Death Guardian said, suddenly harsh._ :But why should I not be amused by your plight? Despite the sympathy I feel for you in your predicament, I also feel contempt for the actions you have taken against the Sarafan. I knew the Generals as children and viewed them almost as my own kin._

:So although one could say that you possessed a legitimate claim to their lives, I do not condone their murder at your hands.:

And did you condone Janos Audron's murder at theirs_? _Mortanius was silent in the back of his mind. Raziel's soul warmed a bit in satisfaction and he turned his attention to Moebius. The Time Streamer was adjusting the dials on the far wall with careful precision, the circles of worn brass and iron clicking softly as they turned. The Soul Reaver turned, taking in his surroundings with more interest than he had previously shown. Beneath his feet and the dusty glass floor, enormous gears were moving slowly, keeping a regular pace. He turned slightly and noticed Moebius watching him. 

"No taunts, Raziel?" the sorcerer asked snidely. "No clever remarks?"

_:Whistling in the darkness,: _Mortanius sighed. 

_What do you mean? _Raziel questioned, ignoring the Time Streamer. Moebius waited for a moment, then, when Raziel didn't respond, he turned back to his dials.

_:What I mean, child, is that Moebius uses a child's trick to quell his fear. He shows distain to those who threaten him, and so eliminates his enemies with a display of false strength. He would rather die than make his fear of you known.:_

Raziel froze in surprise, then continued his examination of the room. _But he has nothing to fear from me...._

:Moebius does not understand my power. He is unaware of its nature and does not know- were you to strike out at him- if I could stop you in time.: The Necromancer's tone was amused, pleased that Moebius had so little conception of his abilities.

_Is he aware of your presence here? _Raziel asked slowly.

_:He is not,: _Mortanius' satisfaction was plainly audible in those three words.

_You suggest that I should find some way to amuse myself, Necromancer? _Raziel chuckled inwardly and moved towards the sorcerer. Moebius did not turn, but watching closely, the Soul Reaver noticed a nearly undetectable flinching of the Time Streamer's shoulders at the sound of his feet crossing the floor. Raziel stepped up to his enemy, braving the staff, stood right beside him before the dials. Moebius continued his adjustments without speaking.

Usually the Pillar of Time was the first to speak... perhaps if Raziel were to break the silence.... "Already preparing for the return trip, Moebius? Are you in such a hurry to leave this time?" he asked mockingly. The Time Streamer ignored him. He decided to make a small bid for information. 

"Afraid Kain will come and kill you earlier than expected?" Raziel asked, the smirk he could not express was evident in his words. 

"It is unlikely he would come after me now," the sorcerer murmured acidly. "We have all the time needed in this world," Moebius smirked. He flicked one of the dials, making it ring before twisting it to the side.

Raziel felt a small flame of triumph that was quickly extinguished. _I could take his words to mean that Kain has already killed the circle... but when has Moebius ever spoken truth to me? _

:If he were_, it might bode ill for you,: _the Necromancer murmured. _:Moebius would not reveal true information to any unless he believed he would gain something from dispensing the knowledge, or that the informed would gain _nothing_.:_ Mortanius' voice faded slowly, considering the meaning of what had been said. 

_Does your master not keep you informed of Moebius' plans? _Raziel asked. _Oh- I had forgotten, there is infighting amongst the ranks of the Unspoken's soldiers, _he murmured wryly. Mortanius remained silent, but Raziel wondered if he only _sensed _confusion from the corner of his mind that housed the Death Guardian.

"You have my condolences, Moebius," Raziel murmured, turning his back on the Time Guardian. He moved to the chamber door and pretended to inspect the runes on one side. "If you were truly as close to my former self as you would have me believe- I imagine you miss the little bastard. Incidentally, I do hope that Kain has not interrupted your plans too badly by saving me from the Reaver." 

Moebius turned and joined Raziel, smiling malevolently at him. "Not at all- in fact, this turn of events makes things much more interesting.... But come, Reaver of Souls," he said, raising his staff to open the chamber door, "come and let me show you to my own little slice of Nosgoth."

A piece of Raziel's soul shrank in fear at the smug look on Moebius' face. In the light of his staff, Moebius looked truly evil. 

The Soul Reaver had felt true fear of very few beings during the span of his un-life. Kain, he had feared- as every intelligent being of his time did- but as he had been the firstborn and most favored of Kain's lieutenants, it had only been a fear of punishment. 

Although Raziel had indeed been intimidated several times by the vampire Lord of Nosgoth, until his mutilation and execution, he never had reason to fear destruction at Kain's hands. 

There had been times, standing in the presence of the Elder God, that he had experienced anxiety, feeling the oppressive weight of the squid-like creature's presence, and almost shuddered at the ominous tone of the its words, but the fear had been easy to suppress. Despite what he knew the Elder was capable of, it was hard for him to feel terror of a creature with such an enormous lack of mobility.

The Necromancer Mortanius had given Raziel ample reason for indignation, but no reason for fear. The Death Guardian's power was a frightening thing, to the living _and _the dead, but Mortanius did not wish him true harm. Moebius on the other hand, wanted him dead, but as such a thing was impossible, he would settle to see Raziel contained; his mind destroyed. 

In the face of these various influences, Raziel had had a few advantages, but he used them to their fullest extent. _Now _he was indestructible, but in the days when his body had not been so resilient, he had hidden his fear, and the practice had kept him safe. Kain, who could sense it without evidence from one's face or body, had not been fooled, but he _had _been impressed by the control Raziel held over outward signs of his anxiety. 

Raziel had never showed fear towards the _Vampire God of Nosgoth_, he'd be damned even further than he already was if he revealed his fear to _Moebius_.

The Time Streamer displayed his cadaverous leer and held his free hand out to the door, motioning Raziel to precede him. The Soul Reaver buried his revulsion for the sorcerer and left the chamber. 

Moebius fell into step beside him and continued to speak. "Anarcrothe, Bane and DeJoule have had their Dark Eden, Malek his Bastion, and Azimuth, the city of Avernus... but what of Moebius?" the Time Guardian smiled wickedly, turning his white eyes towards the vampire wraith. "There are playgrounds of perversion to be found all over Nosgoth... one belonging to each of the Circle members, so _of course _I have one as well." 

_:What is this?:_ Mortanius whispered. Raziel was sure of it now- he sensed confusion from the Guardian within his mind. 

_You did not have one as well, Mortianius? I must confess- I am surprised, _Raziel said in mock astonishment. The Death Guardian lapsed into silence again and Raziel sighed internally. 

"When did the Guardians build these little hells, Moebius?" the Soul Reaver murmured indifferently. "After their corruption- or did their perversion of the natural orders take place out of some instinctive, _human _sadism?"

The Time Streamer only smiled. Raziel continued. "And here I had thought the mountain caves housing the Chronoplast to be your retreat."

"The caves are a fine place from which to examine the streams of time, but not a true place to..." he frowned slightly, then smiled again, finding the correct word, "_experiment_ with the spiritual balance within transgressors of the law."

Raziel had nothing to say to that. They walked silently, emerged from the cavern leading to the Time Streaming Chamber. The Soul Reaver stopped, looking out over the alien landscape.

They were standing on a cliff, overlooking a wide expanse of wind-tossed ocean. A part of Raziel's mind that remembered the Abyss drew back in fear for a moment. Out in the distance were a small group of islands, enormous stone pedestals rising out of the water. Standing upon them was what could only be their destination. 

"It began as a simple prison... a place to punish the blasphemous rebellion leaders of Nosgoth... for _all _eternity," Moebius said, looking upon the structure with a kind of fatherly pride. "Time is frozen within those walls...." 

And what walls they were. Dark, water-sprayed stone rose into the sky, disappearing into clouds that hung low in the atmosphere. There were no windows, no niches in the rock walls- they climbed smoothly and endlessly upward.

Moebius sneered slightly. "I should like to see your phase ability serve you within _this _fortress," he hissed. Raziel remained doggedly silent, but Moebius spoke enough for the both of them. "Oh, it began as a simple prison... but then I learned of the lacking management and decided to change the caretakers. 

"After the death of Dark Eden's unholy trinity, most of the creations inhabiting the realm died. The land remained the cracked and burning wasteland it had become, but without magic to sustain them, DeJoule, Bane and Anarcrothe's horrors died. All of them... except the Wardens... which had been formed to be self-sufficient; created to be helpers for Anarcrothe's twisted experiments. Each one shares its creator's interest in the studies of... anatomy... the physics and internal processes of the body... chemical composition... among other things."

Raziel remembered well the cracked, bubbling earth of Dark Eden. In the days of Kain's empire, it would be the chosen site of his brother Turel's clan territory. The second born lieutenant would create a clan to be proud of, their strength and resilience unmatched by any other, having been reared in such unforgiving lands. 

It would be there- in Dark Eden, that Turel would make his steel factories out of the ruins of the Sorcerers' keep. He would provide blades and armor for the vampire clans, and smoke and soot to block out- almost completely- the sun of Nosgoth. It would also be there, in that keep, that Turel and his brothers would find an old curiosity in the form of the old laboratories of the three sorcerers. 

There had been any number of scientific instruments within the laboratories, things that would slice a body in two, and things that would sew it back up again... things that could reach from the toes of a being to its brain without damaging the vein through which it traveled. There had been instruments of razor sharpness, well kept somehow, even after centuries of disuse. Some of the things had been blunt, hugely proportioned hammers - with perhaps the same purpose. As he and his brothers had tested some of the devices on errant fledglings long ago, Raziel could well imagine what kind of 'experiments' the prison keepers performed. 

Raziel felt the Reaver quicken at a specific memory of violence and hastily buried the thought. Moebius was still speaking to him.

"...I installed the Wardens within the prison, wove spells about the walls that repel the winds of change and the rivers of time. The prison, its Wardens, and its prisoners remain constant throughout the ages. 

"Time is frozen within those walls," Moebius repeated. "The prison is a rock that rises above the streams of time. While millennia age and die outside- those within never age... never change. A human prisoner would consider the lifetime of a vampire to be the flicker of an eyelash." Moebius smiled at Raziel again. "I could leave you forever within its walls... if I chose."

The Soul Reaver only looked at him. "Are you expecting me to beg for forgiveness?" Raziel asked disdainfully.

"Why not indulge me? It may help your state of affairs."

"Leave me for a millennia in your prison and eventually I will find some way to escape."

"As you seem to forget quite often, Raziel, I have seen the future," The Time Streamer moved down the rock pathway towards the nearest isle. Raziel's feet were compelled to follow.

"If, at any point in time, you had even a _hope _of escaping," he continued, "I would appear with the Reaver before you could make good your chance."

The wraith blade quivered in anticipation. Raziel stopped fighting the Death Guardian's power and turned his resistance against the parasitic half of his twinned soul. Mortanius' power carried him down the path behind the Time Streamer. Raziel pushed the wraith blade's awareness back into a corner of his mind and spoke to cover his lapse. "Despite what you may believe, Moebius, you are _not _omnipotent. One day I will prove it to you."

"Such confidence," Moebius chuckled. "Shall we examine where it has brought you so far? You were so confident in your ability to go your own way that you never realized your path had been laid by my hand from the beginning. You were so confident that the threat of death would force me to send you into the past that you went merrily into the future. You were _so confident _that the Vampire Audron would be able to give you answers to your questions that you never imagined someone could be following after you- waiting to be led into the creature's private chambers." 

Raziel grabbed the Time Streamer by the neck of his purple tunic and slammed him into the mountain wall beside them. He held Moebius there, their faces inches apart. 

Suddenly the wraith blade began to strain against the power of Moebius' staff, leeching Raziel's energy to fuel their combined rage. The Reaver consumed him, took control, knowing only that here before them was an enemy- a soul to be devoured. The blade fought so hard against the violet-colored crystal that a faint outline of it was able to form about the vampire wraith's arm. The staff flared even more brightly, attempting to drive the blade back into Raziel's body. 

There was a question, at one moment, of which would win out. The crystal grew brighter and brighter, but the wraith blade was draining Raziel's energy to dangerous levels in order to keep from being contained. Suddenly the blade had become fully aroused- and it was winning the fight. 

The Soul Reaver closed his eyes, waiting for the battle taking place within him to come to its inevitable conclusion. Then Mortanius took a hand in the fight, quelling the blade's power and pushing it forcibly back into Raziel's body.

Raziel's talons flexed slightly, clenching and unclenching, and he realized as the Reaver and the sudden rush of anger abated, that he was unable to move.

Raziel's humiliation was such that he never noticed the moment of panic that crossed Moebius' face. The Time Streamer had regained control of his facial expression before Raziel raised his eyes again.

The Soul Reaver cursed inwardly, annoyed at having given in to the Sorcerer's taunts. Moebius could do nothing worse to him than what was already being done. All the Time Streamer could still gain from Raziel's existence was amusement at the wraith's impotent anger.

"So unfortunate," Moebius mused, his tone mockingly sorrowful. "We held such hopes for you."

Raziel felt the magic loosen as he regained control over his rage and dropped Moebius to his feet. He clenched his hands into fists and moved along the pathway, straining to keep his balance without aid. The wraith blade had drained him almost completely. "You have always had this scenario planned for me, Moebius... you and your _master_. You needn't pretend otherwise."

The Time Streamer maintained an even pace a few steps behind Raziel. "But you might have existed in this form for a while longer," he protested, softly amused.

"Until I killed Kain for you?"

"Human, wraith or sword- you are the Circle's assassin, Raziel. I was under the mistaken impression that you would enjoy having a _mind _while occupying that position."

Moebius continued, barely heeded by his reluctant companion. Raziel concentrated on the Necromancer, who was slowly feeding him energy, allowing the Soul Reaver to regain his strength. The vampire wraith assessed this show of compassion and decided it was nothing to the Death Guardian to strengthen him when Mortanius could so easily hold his power in check. 

He attempted to question the sorcerer, but Mortanius was silent, immersed in his own thoughts. Raziel put the question out of his mind. With no other distraction available, the Soul Reaver was again drawn to the awareness that shared his life-force. 

The Wraith Blade was quiescent. It could be nothing else with the combined hindrances of its close proximity to Moebius' staff and Mortanius' power wound around it. However, now that Raziel's soul had felt its touch, they were never truly unknown to each other. The blade was... singing to him. That was the only word Raziel believed fit the sensation. 

The Reaver was a soft murmur at the back of his awareness, bidding him to join with it, to cease the fight and know peace. The wraith blade's song was comforting in the manner of a Priest's sermon to a man at the gallows, but Raziel endured the sensation. If nothing else, it made Moebius easier to ignore.

They moved closer and closer to the prison, stopping before the great divide that separated the largest island from the mainland. The Guardian of Time raised his glowing staff, the illumination growing brighter, and suddenly, where there had been nothing, a door appeared. Raziel quirked an eyebrow at the design. What looked like one of the winged beings adorned the stone doorway. The wings were spread slightly, face tilted downward. The doors slid open, revealing thin air on the other side. Moebius gestured smilingly for Raziel to precede him. 

The vampire wraith moved forward, paused at the edge of the portal, then walked straight-shouldered into it. The stone frame glowed in various colors and twisted sickeningly, similar to the changes undergone during a shift from the physical realm to the spectral. 

The end of the portal allowed him access to the front door of the main building. The vampire wraith took in the sight of two enormous statues on either side of the door, both garbed head to toe in armor, long capes flaring out behind them. Each statue bore a long chain in one hand, a scythe in the other. Small yellow lanterns hung from the curved blades, eerily lighting the entryway.

"Are we not eager to see our new home?" Moebius asked derisively. The Time Streamer moved forward, his staff lighting the way, opening the doors without prompting from the sorcerer. Mortanius' magic took hold of Raziel once again and guided his feet slowly through the doorway.

__

The doors closed with an ominous clang. Seconds later, a portcullis slid down, tines biting into the floor. Mortanius released him. Raziel stared at the doorway for a moment, refusing to acknowledge the insidious little mental voice that said he was now trapped. He turned, studied his surroundings.

The room was grand, if dark. The lightning-kissed grey clouds hung oppressively above the domed ceiling. There were bars imbedded in many alcoves along the walls, revealing prisoners who stared out between them like animals on display. A ramp began at the right side of the room, angled up the back wall and ended at the left side at the top, leading into another area. 

Six large statues formed a half-circle around the door two on either side of the doorway, and two on either side of those. The statues depicted beings that resembled nothing so much as the Grim Reaper depicted in human folklore. Or rather, the one humans had used before Kain had secured his rule of Nosgoth and usurped the Reaper's throne. Perhaps these were the 'Wardens' Moebius had mentioned.

Raziel cared nothing for these monstrosities, however, as the most grand of the statues was far more interesting, and of a creature that was, by himself at least, far more despised. 

In the center of the chamber was a grandly constructed statue of the Time Streamer himself. 

He stepped forward, examined the stone figure for a time... long enough to take in the detailed workmanship of the statue. Raziel studied the meticulous attention paid to detail on every aspect of the figure. The stone-made-flesh carving was exquisite, despite what it depicted. The uniformly grey marble was an exact replica of Moebius, everything from the sunken eyes to the faint sneer on the Time Streamer's lips. Raziel gave a sidelong glance to the Pillar of Time, who was watching him with the exact same expression on his face. 

The Soul Reaver almost raised a hand to strike at the carving, stopped himself at the last moment. Even if Mortanius allowed him to carry out such an act, it would serve no purpose other than Moebius' amusement. Raziel fought down his anger and just stood there.

The chiming of an enormous clock sounded through the room, and as one, the prisoners beyond the bars scattered.

An enormous shaft of emerald fire appeared at the threshold of the other room, on the high side of the ramp. The Soul Reaver glanced at the being within it, then back at the six statues circling the doorway. This creature with its spectacular entrance must have been the model for the statues. 

The green fire rose again and appeared before them an instant before revealing the creature. Raziel flinched back from it, lifting his hands in a defensive pose. The thing barely gave him a glance. Its dead yellow gaze was all for the Time Guardian.

A hollow, clipped voice emanated from the being. "Lord Moebius," it said loudly, "we are honored by your presence."

The Time Streamer nodded once, smiling slightly. "I have brought you a new prisoner, Warden," he murmured, pausing to smirk at Raziel, "one you are sure to find more interesting than the humans you currently guard."

Then the creature fixed him with its cold, blank gaze. The Warden raised its scythe slightly and glided closer to him, its long, kilt-like lower section of armor billowing out with the movement. Mortanius' power let him alone and able to move, but Raziel held his ground defiantly, hiding of his revulsion of the creature. 

"Astonishing..." the hollow voice murmured, a slightly menacing quality to its tone. It was as if the voice always held the same pitch and intonation, and the only change made was in volume. The creature floated silently around him, examining from all sides. Raziel turned his head slightly, keeping it in sight, studying the Warden as it, in turn, studied him. 

The creature looked exactly like what it was; a construct. Its body, although humanoid, appeared to be firm, hard, and shone in the light of the room's few torches, looking like a cross between plate armor and the body of an insect. The skin of its arms was leathery in appearance, a pale, sickly looking greyish-yellow. The lamp-like eyes, or what served as such, were harsh, pale circles of light that floated bizarrely in the darkness between the creature's hood and the grille-like mask that made the bottom of its face. 

Raziel did not know what was underneath the odd looking dress of armor that the thing wore, but as there were no visible feet resting on the floor- he doubted that anything under there resembled either human or vampire. The scythe in its hand was pale steel polished to mirror brightness, yet somehow it shimmered in the torchlight, its six-foot handle created of the same metal as the blade.

The fingers clasped around it were long, thin and delicate. They were exaggerated in proportion, but the perfect size and shape to wield small instruments or investigate areas of the body not made for exposure to the open air. They also tapered down to thin points that looked sharp enough to cut. 

The Soul Reaver suffered the creature's touch, feigning indifference to its prodding of his arm, wings and back as the creature drifted about him. It came to rest before him once again, reached out casually and flicked one long digit over his ribs. 

Raziel flinched as the finger cut through flesh, exposing the bones underneath. The Warden watched for signs of pain where there were none. Two long fingers pried the muscle apart curiously, then drew back. The creature watched as Raziel's flesh resealed, the cut edges running back together like thick water.

"Extraordinary," it said softly. "Does it speak?" the Warden asked Moebius, its free hand reaching out for the edge of Raziel's clan drape. Moving before he could consider the possibility that Mortanius might stop him, Raziel reached out and caught the creature's wrist.

"Yes," he answered icily. "_It _does." Moebius chuckled darkly and moved towards the ramp. 

"I think one of the outer cells should do nicely, Warden," the Time Streamer said, walking away from them. Raziel flung the creature's hand away and followed Moebius. They paced through the Prison, the Warden bringing up the rear. The Soul Reaver felt almost as if the construct's eyes were burning a pair of trails into his mind, searching for the manner by which he was able to exist as he did. He thought he saw small yellow lights hanging in the thick air, always in pairs... perhaps they were Raziel's imagination... perhaps they were not. 

A mechanical sculpture of globes sat in the middle of one room, spheres moving in stately patterns about a central point. The Warden threw a switch at the base of the device. Time and space distorted for a moment. When Raziel could see again, he stood in a small room, at the precipice of a shallow pit. He hadn't had time to realize the significance of this before the sphere topping Moebius' staff connected with the small of his back, propelling him into the pit. He landed, whirled around, enraged, and Mortanius seized his limbs once again.

Moebius was chuckling at him, the Warden speaking, but the Soul Reaver heard none of it. 

_:Beyond this point I shall leave you, Raziel,: _Mortanius whispered. _:There is no help I can give- but I thank you for the knowledge you have caused Moebius to reveal. If there is a time in the future where my power may assist you- you are entitled to ask.:_

The Soul Reaver wondered idly what good that did him now as a set of thick bars slammed into place above him and the Warden walked away, confident that he was trapped. Mortanius had withdrawn completely from his mind, taking his power with him.

Raziel raised his arms and fired a number of force projectiles at the grinning Pillar of Time. Moebius raised his staff and blocked the shots, never losing the amused expression.

"You shall see me again, Time Streamer," Raziel grated at the chuckling sorcerer. 

"You may _count _on it, my boy," Moebius sneered. "I shall be the one holding the sword," he smiled wickedly, "and you shall be the one _within _it." The Soul Reaver's eyes narrowed in anger as the sorcerer turned away, his soft, malevolent chuckle echoing through the chamber. "Enjoy your time here, Raziel," he continued in a lethal whisper, "I shall come again all too soon."

The door slammed shut. Raziel was alone, only his anger for company. 

Then a sound took up volume in the back of his mind and he shuddered... the song again. Looking down at the Reaver, slowly re-forming about his arm, Raziel amended his thought. He was _not _alone, and it was unlikely that he ever would be again.

Moebius exited the prison, still smiling to himself. He moved back along the path, heading for the conveniently placed Time Streaming Chamber he had used to appear in this era. He looked back once at the entrance to the cave, face growing solemn at the sight of the Prison. 

No, he did _not _expect it to hold Raziel. _A millennium spent in my prison would see you escape before half the time had passed, _Moebius thought to the imprisoned Soul Reaver. _Oh yes, my boy. You shall find a way out... out of the frying pan and into the fire. There is no escaping History._

Moebius' mind drifted back through time to his fellow Guardians, Malek and Mortanius. The Time Streamer smiled. "No escape," he murmured, "for any of you." Then he turned and melted into the shadows of the cave.

==========================================

*satisfied smile* Wasn't that worth the wait? 

Review please, and tell me yea or nay. ^_^


	9. Pride and a Fall

Copyright © 2002 by Syvia (Aka Rebecca K. Friedrick). All Rights Reserved.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. Adojan the Hylden and all of the Ancients except Janos are my brainchildren. If you want the full list- check out the dictionary in the back. ^_^

Author's notes: I used the Prima strategy guides for BO2 & SR2 for pics of the games and info. 

Check out Blincolin's site; http://www.peak.sfu.ca/~blincoln/lok/ It kicks ass and it's where I found out that Turel's Clan Territory was in Dark Eden! ^_^

This; http://www.darkchronicle.co.uk/archive/bomap.html is a really great pic of the Blood Omen 1 map of Nosgoth in SilverEnigma's site. Great site in general and great pics! ^_^

Ranmyaku, thanks for the shoptalk about this, that and those other things. You're a great help and a wonderful friend. ^_^

And another shout out to all the buddies of mine on FF.net who've kept me going, talked about general fun stuff & keep me up past my bedtime with _their _great stories. 

*Syvia walks out and faces the readers*

Syvia- For those of you who've just come in... why the hell are you reading this chapter first?!? *small chuckle*

Must mention this- ^_^ Crazydragon took up the challenge of drawing some of my brainchildren! ^_^ take this link- http://www.side7.com/cgi-bin/S7SDB/DisplayImg.pl?INO=162334 and go check out Zofia all grown up! :-D *hugs the life out of Crazydragon* 

Don't be surprised if, in the future, you find a humor ficlet regarding the night she wore that dress! ~_^ 

Anyway- ever since I've played SR1, I've been wondering something. Turel survived Raziel's wrath, so what is he doing? What's happening to the future in Kain & Raziel's absence? Well- let's find out. *happy grin*

Chapter 7

Pride and a Fall

__

Nosgoth ~ 2012 A. C. ~ The Dying World

In the Northeastern mountains, mere miles away from the Turelim clan territory of Dark Eden, a creature stood at the edge of the highest peak, engrossed in the sight of the world spread before him. 

It was a scene from hell.

And yet, many would not have realized that fact.

Humans told stories of the land of fire and brimstone that housed evildoers after they departed the coil of life. Few realized that Hell did not have fire, because although fire was a source of pain, and death it also perpetuated life. Fire fueled life, encouraged it in the same manner as the earth, water, and air. 

No... the true vision of Hell was this. This cracked, wasted land made up of bare grey stone that stretched as far as any eye, human or vampiric, could see. This world was dark... lifeless... there was nothing. Nothing at all. 

Nosgoth was not supposed to look like Hell. Yet it did. The creature on the cliff was not supposed to look like _he _did, yet he was something of Hell himself. Not vampire, by the formidable pair of curved horns adorning his head, and not demon, by the pair of leathery bat wings that unfolded from his back. He was a something of both, as well as something else entirely, and a far cry from his original self indeed.

/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\

\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/

Centuries ago, a human named Kyran had been one of the last practicing Sorcerers in Nosgoth. His talents had been mediocre at best; lighting candles with a thought and creating a thin energy barrier to keep off the rain had been two of his strongest abilities. But in a world where magic was dying and life was fading, even the second-rate practitioners were precious. As, one-by-one, the oldest ones died, Kyran had become the _very _last. Thenhe had been sought out, abducted by vampires, and initiated into their brotherhood. His death and rebirth had caused a substantial -to say the least- increase in his powers. 

During his centuries spent as the Lieutenant Raziel's chief sorcerer, Kyran had remained hidden, his existence unknown by all but the highest ranking of the Vampire Lord's soldiers; used as a secret weapon in court intrigue and the wars against the humans. He had 'died' in battle many times, only to rise again unobserved. 

It was this talent that had saved him from the Clan Purge so many centuries ago. He had seen the entire tragedy, elder vampires and fledglings alike slain where they stood, taken unaware by the sudden and brutal attack of the other Clans. Kyran remained in his secluded area of the Razielim's Territory until the fervor died down, then, draining a few slaves for added energy, escaped into the mountains. There had been only three others of his Clan to elude the slaughter, and together they had run from their former home. The other Clans, tracking their fear like dogs on the hunt, caught wind of the few Razielim that had escaped their notice until now. 

It was a game to them, Kyran realized as he ran. He tore up the mountain path with no heed for the small bushes he crashed through or the pebbles he knocked against the mountain walls. His pursuers made no sounds, but they were there. He cared nothing for the sounds _he _made. Kyran wasn't trying to be stealthy, he knew this day was his last on Nosgoth. At least, he _hoped _it would be. He was the last. Last of the Razielim. Lord Kain wasn't likely to allow him a quick death. 

Either way, the Lieutenants had taken their time in hunting them. He and his three brethren had run over a week ago, and during the last seven days his comrades had been killed, one by one, on the road out of Nosgoth. In times past, Kyran had thought such a thing to be mere fantasy. Now he knew it existed, but only for the dead. 

He was unsure if bad or good luck had caused only three of Lord Kain's remaining sons to take on the job of hunting him. From what he'd heard, the two absent, Lords Melchiah and Rahab, were two of the more merciful. During the Purge, he had seen first-hand the rape and mutilation inflicted upon his brethren on behalf of the Dumahim and Zephonim vampires. Of the other Clans, it varied vampire to vampire, but for the most part, they killed cleanly and quickly. The killings were brutal, done with relish and subsequent blood drinking, but at least the vampire in question was _dead_. 

Kyran was not surprised at the presence of either of those clan lords, but Lord Turel was a different story. Kyran's best guess was that Lord Kain's second born had accompanied his younger brothers to ensure they did what they were meant to do, which was actually _kill_ the last of the Razielim. Not that the Vampire God disliked the torture of vampires.... 

Those unfortunate Razielim who had undergone the change before the Purge had been among the most cruelly tormented. Skin was flayed from flesh by the most skilled of the Melchiaim, fragile wing bones extracted with exceeding care from their bodies by the Zephonim before they were beaten senseless by vampires of the other Clans. When their bodies began to mend, the torture began again. Each life, however, ended in the same manner, devoured by the abyss. Some had jumped willingly in the end, others were thrown or pushed into the gaping maw of the Lake of the Dead.

The four escapees had made it as far as the hills before they realized they were being hunted, and had caught a glimpse of who was hunting them. Black armor and stealth clothing had met Kyran's eyes, and the banners of three different clans. The vivid green, pale grey and deep violet had given him all the information he needed to begin running harder, his brethren straining to keep up. It had only been later that one of his fellows identified the three as Clan Leaders. Kyran had simply increased his speed. 

Now, with his back to thin air, his face to the cliff to which they had chased him, he was well and truly trapped.

One of the vampires advanced, Kyran pulled his arm back, gathering pale yellowish-grey fire in his palm. 

"Stay back or die," he warned softly. Dumah paused, then bared his fangs and growled deep in his throat. Kyran shifted slightly, ready to attack, when Zephon dropped a hand on his brother's shoulder. The Clan Lord smiled and advanced cautiously, moving to the right, close to the cliff. 

"Unfortunate that you have not yet evolved," he said, glancing down into the abyss. "Raziel's deformity would have served you well in this dilemma." 

Turel moved to the other side, the three of them forming a small circle about him.

"I don't understand," Kyran murmured, moving slightly in order to keep all of them in his sight. 

"You never saw any of your brethren after the transformation?" Zephon asked curiously. When Kyran shook his head, the grey-bannered Clan Leader hooked his thumbs together with a whimsical smile and wiggled his fingers in an imitation of a bird flying.

"What?" Kyran whispered, his eyes wide. He turned at a sudden noise and dealt a fiery blow to Dumah's chest. The Clan Lord was propelled backwards, and lay stunned for a moment as Zephon smirked and Turel shook his head slightly. "Why are you doing this?" he pleaded, voice soft.

Zephon turned to look back at him, smiled slightly. "If I had a human for every Razielim who asked me that in the last month..." he mused. 

"Raziel was a traitor to his people," Turel murmured, "and the sentence for treason is death... for every member of his Clan." Kyran met the cold, cold eyes of Kain's second born and saw his capture, torture, and eventual death. He turned and ran for the edge of the cliff. Hands caught his arms before he could take that step into oblivion. 

"Oh _no_, my boy," Zephon hissed into his ear. "True death will not find you _that _easily."

They beat Kyran to within an inch of his life, and, upon Zephon's urging, he and Dumah reenacted the execution of Raziel, dragging him to the edge of the cliff and casting him into the chasm.

Kyran fell forever, somehow taking delight in the wind rushing around him, even as he sped toward his imminent demise... and yet he never hit the ground. The sweep of powerful wings met his ears and a strong pair of arms reached out, cradling him, slowing and eventually stopping his fall. Only a short time after that, weakened and delirious in the home of his savior, he was drawn into his own evolution.

He was held immobile, trapped within the cocoon, but his mind writhed in agony that his body did not have the freedom of movement to express. 

In time he lost strength, lost the battle, and curled in upon himself as the change overtook his body. He thought it would end finally... when a new agony blossomed within him. Power, pure, unadulterated power seized his mind like a dam breaking over a village. It flowed in, saturating his poor brain and drowning it. The power had to go somewhere... and a door opened.

As the power sought its escape through that door, other things flooded in, making room. Suddenly Kyran was assaulted by a brutal rush of memory the likes of which he'd never felt before. He surged up, screaming, from the cocoon, lashed out without looking at the gentle hands that caught his wrists. His newly formed wings beat wildly at the air and he broke away, stumbling blindly for the light he sensed more than saw, and Kyran threw himself into the air, wings snapping out instinctively to hold him with nothing under his feet. 

A voice was calling his name frantically, pleading that he come back. Kyran half-recognized it from the past and flew faster, beating his wings in a manner that was half instinct and half experience from his newfound memories. The wind carried him far and away from the Reaver Guardian who had been the instrument of his salvation... and his damnation.

He found himself, days later, without knowing how he'd managed to get there, in the ruins of the great Cathedral of Avernus. 

Kyran traveled down and down into the Ruins, not fully aware of what he was doing there, or what he was looking for. Yet, from the fiery depths and lava-lined caves beneath the old structure... something was calling him. The summons felt like nothing so much as a hand wrapped around his soul, his heart, drawing him closer and closer to a place he didn't want to go. 

In a cavern of blood-colored rock, decorated with the bones of human and vampire alike, he was drawn, almost against his will, to the back of the chamber. 

His feet slid strangely across the dark floor while he noted the image that seemed to have been burned into the surface. Kyran moved forward, and at the far end of the room, on a pedestal, there sat a book. 

It seemed harmless, and he reached out to touch it. A hair's breath from the parchment, he hesitated, his hand trembling slightly. A shadow passed over the pages, like a black wave on the surface of a pond, and he snatched cloven fingers back from the tome. It seemed to glow ever so slightly, ancient, yet uncovered by dust. The bloody handprints staining the page were shiny, as if the blood were still wet, yet the tome must have lain there for millennia. 

His eyes followed the words written on the page, not quite recognizing the letters he'd used in his human life, yet one set of symbols seemed to leap from the page. It had three sections. Four letters, then two, then three. A name. It looked so harmless on the page, yet malice coated the curves and violence threatened in the points of each letter. 

A name. It was a designation that attempted to classify that which could not be described; the most chaotic and evil force within Nosgoth. 

Kyran had gone still, quiet, unable to form a word or even a coherent thought. Then, at a sound, he turned and his mouth fell open at what he saw. Rising from the stone floor was an enormous shadow, three times his size, bearing transparent ivory colored horns and talons and burning red eyes. It smiled possessively down at him with a smirk that made him want to shrink in fear or stand straighter in indignation. Its voice rumbled through the cavern, seeming to come from the walls instead of the creature itself.

_:My 'raven,': _the voice gloated. _:Well-met, Adojan. Well-met indeed.:_

"Who are you?" he asked calmly, although a frantic voice in the back of his mind was already shrieking the answer. "What name did you call me?"

The being chuckled again. _:In darkness you were born... for the darkness named... and so in darkness shall you walk. My darkness. The last of your kind, and the first of a new. You shall be my instrument on this miserable planet, and your name is Adojan.:_

The name echoed in his mind, a memory, a sound, traveling across the haze of disorientation... a woman's voice, lovely and loving, spoke a single word, a name, and he believed. 

_:Adojan...: _the burning eyes caught his, held them, and dragged him through five centuries' worth of memories, long forgotten. 

How long he sat there, he didn't know. The sound of the creature speaking his name brought him back.

He gasped, took in his surroundings, and stared up at the creature with a new sense of horror. The vampire's knees went weak, he sank down before the being, unnoticed tears slipping down his cheeks. 

_:A wise course of action, my son,: _the Unspoken smiled down at his newest charge.

"Your _what_?" his eyes widened slightly.

_:My _son, _Adojan. After all, you are what I made you,: _the creature informed him.

Adojan's jaw tightened at the statement and he glared. "I am _not _your son."

Hash'ak'gik's smile became predatory. _:How I shall enjoy teaching you otherwise.:_

/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\/|\

\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/\|/

Adojan stood broodingly at the cliff's edge. He was a more true mix of things past and present, pure and corrupted, powerful and weak, than any creature in Nosgoth. His body was thinner than it used to be, his muscles more dense, tendon connected to bone in different areas in order to give him more strength and force with less weight. The feel of his body was surprisingly similar to that of his far past. The fact gave him a small measure of comfort to counteract his disgust with the body the Unspoken had imposed upon him. After his fateful arrival in the Cathedral of Avernus, his evolutionary cycles had been regular as clockwork, and twice as painful as before. He had lost his hair and been given an enormous pair of horns, His feet were smaller, still cloven, but thin and bony, as were his legs. It pained him to stand for long, although he could do so, and frequently did, refusing to use his wings more often than was necessary. 

His talons were longer, a bit thinner, better for gripping and finding handholds on stone. The most painful change, emotionally, was the loss of his eyes. They were another way for the Unspoken to insult him. Instead of the softly glowing amber eyes he had known as a vampire, his face housed a pair of emeralds that threw off their own luminescence, and actually burned when he was angry. 

But his wings, his wings were the greatest slur against his appearance. They had lengthened, widened, turning from something he could barely use to glide into a useful method of transportation. But he found them repulsive. The feel of the wind upon them, moving over them, the touch of them on his skin if he moved wrong, the feel of them and the way they attached to his back, their appearance. 

Adojan would have happily torn them from his back long ago, but the Unspoken denied him that choice... laughed at him when he attempted to act it out.

His battle garb was quite similar to the clan armor he had once worn, but there was less of it, and what remained was thinner, lighter. The insignia scarves clipped to each shoulder guard moved lightly in the breeze. It was an archaic symbol that adorned the alabaster cloth, and one he remembered seeing in the past. A stylized version of the Sarafan emblem, harsh angles making the 'Y' shape into an odd kind of rune. The rune itself was pure black, the cloth it sat on a sharp contrast. 

At the first glance, he looked demonic in the half-light of Nosgoth's setting sun. The formidable curved horns that adorned his head resembled only one other race in Nosgoth. He was not demon, or vampire, not anymore. Somewhat taller and thinner than the Razielim of old, he was neither fish nor fowl, but something entirely different. The Unspoken called him Hylden, and having seen pictures of them long ago, he realized that this designation was not far from the truth. If a Hylden had been turned into a Vampire... it might have looked something like Adojan.

The Unspoken called him Hylden... had _made _him Hylden. As Nosgoth's corruption had grown, so too had the Dark One's influence in all things _of _Nosgoth. His meeting with Kain-

"You _carry our taint, Vampire God of Nosgoth." He gave a mocking bow. "We thank you for populating the world with our brethren, allowing the Unspoken to make of them, what he would."_

Kain bared his teeth slightly as Adojan continued. "Did the Sarafan Lord not tell you his kind would return?" Adojan smirked. "Here we are, in the form of your own children. You knew it would happen. You condemned my sire and all my brethren to the Abyss for that very reason, and yet, here I stand."

"I could destroy you now_," Kain offered, his voice dangerously quiet._

Adojan only smiled. "Not likely. Not when the battle is two against one." Kain glanced at Janos and his hand crept back to take hold of the Soul Reaver. Janos noticed, and straightened, looking at Kain with sorrowful, yet determined eyes. "He was a powerful warrior once," Adojan said, flicking an idle claw towards the Reaver Guardian, "and his magic has grown with the aid of my master's power, as has mine. We _could very easily destroy _you_."_

"You can try_," Kain answered._

Adojan had refused the bait, and smiled. "On another day, I would fall to my knees, and offer my throat to the Reaver's blade... but not today," the Hylden said grimly. "Today my master simply wishes to give you a message."

Then his eyes began to burn painfully, his awareness was shunted aside as the Dark One spoke through him. 

"Your remaining days are numbered, Kain," It said, a slow growl trickling from Adojan's lips. The Vampire God's face stilled, Kain retreated behind a mask of haughty arrogance. Adojan imagined that Kain was too proud to show fear. What other explanation made sense, for there were none on Nosgoth who did not _fear Hash'ak'gik. "You shall continue the current course of history with none of my interference, but the next time you find yourself in this era of Nosgoth, you life will be forfeit." Adojan's lips pulled into a cruel smile. "And with your death, the Circle shall finally be destroyed. The Pillars will crumble, and I shall tear open a gate between the dimensions, admitting _my _children into this world, which we shall finally claim as our own."_

His power, the corruption of the Unspoken's taint, was his strength, and his weakness. The Demon governed his soul, and could take control of his body at any time.

That Hask'ak'gik was an enemy of old only deepened his cold hatred. He only barely remembered his days as a fledgling, but the days of his fated evolution- those stood out clearly in his mind, framed by a haze of fear and the feeling of thin fingers creeping through his mind. The life he had passed long ago, too, was distinct, but he refused to dwell on past glory, and past failure.

Adojan studied the steel factory that lay in the center of Dark Eden. The most important purpose of Turel's fortress was to spew smoke into the atmosphere, and hide the creatures of Nosgoth from the sun's light. The Hylden's lip curled in distain. His gaze followed the cloud of smoke up into the sky, and as a breath of wind traveled over the land, it cleared slightly, just enough for him to catch sight of a tall, circular structure, cradled amongst the mountain peaks. 

For a moment his vision blurred and he saw dozens of winged figures in the sky around the building, flying to and fro. He blinked and the vision was gone. _It couldn't be- the demons destroyed it centuries ago, _he thought. 

He peered through the dark clouds, waiting for another glimpse of the structure, when a voice broke in on his thoughts.

__

"Milord? Adojan?" He flinched slightly, surprised and angry; turned and caught the Hylden messenger by one horn, bringing the demon's face down, level with his. He glared into the creature's eyes, teeth bared. He could see the reflection of his poisonous-looking green eyes on the now nervous face of his scout.

"You do _not _address me by that name," he grated. Another of his scouts approached, bowed briefly before reporting. 

"Our patrol sighted him within, Milord. He appears to be waiting for something."

"And most likely that something is my honored Sire, who even now is beyond this time," he said ironically, still locked eye to eye with the other Hylden, the disgust he felt towards the creature plain in his face. He pulled sharply on the scout's horn, jerking him off balance, then pushed him backward hard enough to break wing bones as he landed on his back. "Get up," he said coldly. The creature scrambled to his feet and backed into the lines of his brethren, broken wings mending slowly. Twenty-one Hylden stood in three lines on the cliff. Each was around six feet tall, average for a vampire. 

They were slightly taller than he, with a bit more muscle, more mass to their horns, and a wider wingspan. They were not made to be independent thinkers, or problem solvers. What they had was strength, agility, and the ability to follow orders. Adojan might have been the most diminutive of the Hylden, but was the intelligence of their fighting force; the one that kept them all alive. Moreover he was the eldest; their creator, and the one with the greatest strength of will. 

It was not enough to stand against the Unspoken, but enough to think in opposition to It. His creations had less, but then, they had been tampered with in greater measure than had Adojan. With each evolution, the vampires of Nosgoth had lost more and more of their arcane talents. In order for Adojan to keep the formidable magicks he possessed, the Dark One had been forced to slow his state of evolution. While his body was fragile compared to that of his creations, and he was not very skilled in the melee aspect of combat, his spells had been unmatched by any sorcerer save Kain for seven centuries.

They feared him because of this, which was another subtle jibe at him on the part of the Demon Lord. Throughout his lives, he had been respected, valued... but not feared, and he disliked the sensation.

They would follow his orders, and he would follow the Unspoken. That was all the Dark Entity needed to know. 

"Move in at all sides," he shouted at them. The Hylden flinched and stood even more stiffly at attention. "Create a perimeter around the factory _before _you move in. Kill any vampires you find, kill them swiftly, kill them _quietly_." His eyes burned with anger at his own words, the soldiers believed the emotion to be aimed at _them _and some flinched. "If the Vampire Lord is alerted to our presence and escapes before you have secured the area, I will have each and every one of your heads mounted on a pike." His teeth were bared, wickedly sharp points flashing in the dim half-light. The Hylden showed no sign of fear, but he could smell it on them nonetheless. Self-hatred ate at him. Adojan only nodded once, as if satisfied, and ordered them to move out.

The Hylden whose wings were still mending remained standing on the cliff. Adojan only stared at him, eyes burning. The Hylden flinched, attempted to extend his wings, but couldn't. Adojan strode up to him, took hold of one broken wing and pulled the Hylden towards the cliff with it. He pushed the creature to his knees, forcing him to look at the steep drop and the lava that bubbled at the bottom. "If not by wings," Adojan whispered venomously, "you will arrive in Dark Eden on your feet... if luck is with you-" With the last word, he pushed the Hylden over the edge. The Hylden Commander stared coldly at the being who, screaming, tumbled down the mountainside to land headfirst in the magma surrounding the perimeter of Dark Eden. 

Adojan's lips twisted in anger and loathing of his own actions. In the back of his mind, the Unspoken was laughing. 

_:You are what I make of you, my _son.:

Adojan bared his teeth again in a futile gesture of rage and threw himself off the cliff. His wings snapped open by reflex. He rode the thermals, spaced in regular intervals by Dark Eden's constant geothermal heat source, towards the factory.

Turel lay at ease in the very back of his chamber. A small, darkened alcove, the stone covered in large cushions, served as a fine place to await his tardy brother, as Turel wouldn't be seen by another being until he wished to be. 

The Vampire Lord would move into plain sight at the sound of Raziel's footsteps, but for now he lay back and waited.

He would fall in battle. He knew that as surely as he knew of the battles that had transpired between his younger brothers and the eldest. Each of his brothers had been destroyed by his own folly. Raziel, resourceful vampire that he had _always _been, had taken advantage of his surroundings and killed each of them with their own foolishness. Melchiah; ground to bits by his own torture device. 

Zephon; immolated by -Turel had found this to be highly amusing- his own eggs, because a vampire hunter had gained access to his private sanctuary, before Zephon realized the human had a flame thrower, and _then _his lurking brother had failed to remove the device before Raziel appeared in his chambers. 

Rahab; resting in the most dangerous room of his Abby, the _very _chamber in which humans had harnessed the sun's light for the purpose of destroying vampires, had died by a device that could have been dismantled. 

And of course Dumah, who had allowed his arrogance to destroy him once again. Dumah had blithely followed Raziel into the furnace of his fortified city, so certain of victory that he'd died without marking their older brother's hide even _once_. 

Now, with the exception of the few Turelim who inhabited the old city, Ash Village belonged to the wraiths. 

Turel would also die by a means that could have been avoided. There was a river running below the castle, which collected in an underground lake. In days past, his children had used the area for training and for the forges. He could have walled up the lake long ago, protecting himself, but the Clan Lord chose to die in its cold, yet fiery embrace, and his soul would be consumed by his ruined brother. 

He felt no anger or indignation towards this fact. Zephon and Dumah had been fools, not accepting their fate. Melchiah and Rahab on the other hand, had fought, knowing they could not win. They had been unable to give their lives over without a struggle, and so it would be with Turel. He would fight, without hope of victory, for the thrill of one last battle. 

He knew little about the nature of his brother's transformation, but Raziel, while not invincible, was close enough that he would triumph. One of his children had brought news of Raziel's battle against the Tomb Guardian. How, after being thrown into the water, seemingly to his death, Raziel had reappeared unexpectedly in a corner of the room, revitalized and hungry for his child's soul. No matter how many times his brother was destroyed, he would come back with a new strategy and more resolve to destroy his target. 

So much the better. In truth, Turel was weary of this existence, this world. Vampires did not live for all eternity, as his brother's deaths proved, but Kain's second born felt he had lived close _enough _to it. 

Let his death come upon tattered wings and the touch of water he had never known as a vampire. He was ready. His clan were barely more than animals, and would live or die without his aid. Let death take him, and by the sound of footsteps down the corridor, he felt it would come soon.

Turel moved to the center of the hall, waiting in the shadows for the small form that moved ever closer. Pale flames glowed in the darkness, his eyes, Turel guessed. He'd been told of Raziel's appearance, but anticipated finally seeing it for himself. He wondered idly how his brother would react to _his _new form. Turel had been the least changed of the vampire lieutenants, his form was still humanoid, if slightly bigger than it had been at the time of his elder brother's death. His ears had become _much _larger, his skin dark and very thick. For all intents and purposes, his children were smaller, weaker, less intelligent versions of himself. Or so Raziel would believe. They greatly resembled animals now, and as Turel watched his children devolve, century after century, he had begun to wonder if that was all they were. 

The figure in the darkness had stopped, peering into the darkness where he stood. Turel wondered if those glowing eyes served well in darkness. 

"What has kept you, brother?" he asked, moving into the light. I felt Dumah's death days ago." He smirked slightly, waiting.

There was no response from the form, which surprised him. Raziel was nothing if not talkative, and Turel had taunted him long ago with the accusation that he was overly in love with the sound of his own voice.

The Clan Lord gave another taunt. "Has the abyss burned away your tongue, brother? Do you no longer possess a voice?"

A malevolent chuckle, tinged with bitterness, filled the air, carried on currents of magic. It gave Turel the feeling of cold prickling over his skin. 

"I regret to inform you, _Lord _Turel," a hint of amusement in the tone made a mockery of his title, "that your esteemed brother could not make it. But not to worry..." the voice mused, "I am here." The owner of the voice stepped into plain sight. Turel's eyes went wide. 

"Impossible," he whispered. The creature looked vampiric, but every sense Turel possessed was screaming that he was not. The thin, muscular body was pale, greyish-white, and almost human in its appearance. Cloven hands were present, but bore talons slimmer than a vampire's. His feet, cloven as well, were smaller, the bony segments more hoof-like than a vampire's. 

Battle garb similar to what Turel had once worn graced the creature's shoulders, looking as if they were only there for decoration, as did the narrow loincloth that hung about his hips, a thin length of cloth that fell to his knees. A pair of wickedly sharp horns curved from the back of its head, ending in points before its cheeks. The pointed ears were small, but vampiric. 

He smiled at Turel, enjoying the Clan Lord's reaction to his appearance, and the Lieutenant noticed delicately pointed fangs indenting the creature's bottom lip. Unlike a vampire, _all _of this creature's teeth were dangerously sharp. His eyes were slit-pupiled, a green that shone in the darkness, one that looked as if, as a liquid, it would be toxic. They threw off emerald smoke. The most amazing feature, however, and the reason Turel stood staring, were its wings. 

"_Impossible_," he said again. His eyes traced the curve of bone and membrane that lay folded, half hidden behind the creature's body. The wings were bat-like, but much longer than Raziel's had been. The being unfolded them with a bitter smile, showing off, and Turel realized they were much wider as well, seventeen feet at least, and trailing at the lowest point to mid-calf. "I saw you fall from that cliff!" he grated. He knew, of course he knew this Razielim who had escaped death so long ago. 

"It would have been prudent of you to kill me first," the vampire sneered.

How could he have been so foolish? Turel cursed Dumah and Zephon silently for distracting him, himself for the laziness and annoyance that caused him to be satisfied with dropping the vampire, barely alive, off of a mountain. He should have torn out the bastard's heart and watched him take his last gasping breath.

"Instead," the vampire continued, spreading his hands slightly, "here I stand," his lip curled, "alive and well." 

"How?"

"How?" the winged one repeated, his tone still that light, mocking thing. He spoke in a condescending sing-song, as one would to a child. "How is of no importance to _you, Lord _Turel. Very soon you shall have _nothing _to worry about. Blame your brother if you wish to place blame, for his head is as good as any other on which to lay it.

"_I _lay it there. Even as I curse the setting sun and the rising moon... as I curse acidic waters and the choking clouds you and yours have used to cover the skies of this wretched world, I blame him. As should you."

Turel looked at him, tensing for an attack, waiting for the vampire to finish his little tirade. The being's voice was quiet, but thick with menace and a bitterness so sharp that, in another place and time, might have been a weapon. 

"Curse his name, for he has led the entire world to ruin." The winged vampire smiled, his eyes flashed. "The cursed is named Raziel, first born of Kain's Lieutenants, and for your part in his death you may curse yourself as well!" With the last word, the vampire flung himself at the Vampire Lord. Turel reacted swiftly, despite his confusion, expanding his throat and pushing the force projectile out of his mouth and into the air. The former Razielim beat wings that had already been half-spread, angling up towards the darkness near the high ceiling. The force projectile impacted harmlessly upon a column. 

Turel looked up, unable to see the creature in the shadows high above. That surprised him, he would have thought the burning green eyes would stand out in the darkness. He moved back into the shadows and moved silently around the wall to the left. If the winged vampire was unable to see in the darkness, it would still be watching his last position. 

He stopped, listened... and heard nothing. He waited tensely for a few moments, then smiled a bit in amusement. It had been years since any creature had challenged his power. The familiar love of combat, coupled with a rush of heightened energy rose within him. He relished, completely and utterly, a fight. Not the slaughter that the Razielim had been unprepared for all those centuries ago, not the hunt his brothers had led against the four survivors, but a true battle against an equal opponent. One in which you were unsure you would escape unscathed, if at all. But it remained unknown if this vampire was a match for Turel's abilities. The Vampire Lord decided to betray his position, deliberately, and give his challenger an opening.

"And why should I be so cursed?" he murmured, just loud enough to catch the other's attention. "You seem to hate him so... I should think you'd be thanking me for ending Raziel's un-life."

A voice came back from the ceiling, so soft it was almost an echo of Turel's own. "Raziel is the root of the problem. Your hands planted the seed from which that root grew."

Turel stayed perfectly still, listening to the voice as it moved almost imperceptibly along the ceiling. He gave his position again. "Then blame Dumah as well, for helping me," he said in ironic tones, another thought struck him and he spoke again, "and Lord Kain as well, for raising us from the grave."

"Worry not," the voice whispered. "I do." Turel ducked, rolling out of the way as a shapeless blur seemed to fall from the top of the chamber. He turned, arms outstretched as the other vampire kicked off from the wall, reaching for him. The Vampire lord caught the winged creature by the arm and throat, had only begun to squeeze when the other drove a cloven hand into the sensitive panel of flesh at the base of his throat. Turel coughed, choking, and threw the being across the room. He watched the vampire stop himself forcibly, painfully, to keep from rolling across the floor. 

_The wings are a weakness that can be exploited, _Turel thought, a smile curling his lips. The vampire launched into the air once again and Turel melted back into the shadows. "What do you want of _me_?" he asked before moving down the chamber.

"Why," the voice replied, still carrying that light sing-song tone, "as you are the highest ranking vampire in Nosgoth at this time... your position."

That gave him pause. "What?"

"Oh, weren't you aware?" the voice asked pleasantly. "_Lord _Kain and _Lord _Raziel have departed this world for another, leaving you Overlord of Nosgoth. If I wish to claim the title, I must eliminate the current holder."

Turel bared his teeth at the unseen speaker. "You think you can kill me?"

The laughter again. "I _know _I can. But that is not my attention... at least, not yet."

Turel snarled inwardly at the insolent words, watching the ceiling once again. The creature swooped down upon him again, Turel caught him from the air and flung him towards one of the columns. Suddenly wings spread and the vampire put his hands behind his back, an instant before he hit the stone, a light burst from his palms and he shot away from the column, back into the air.

_Hit and run tactics... some strange form of power... intriguing. _The vampire did not disappear this time, but hung in the air, just out of reach, taunting him. Turel smiled slightly, expanded his throat and loosed a force projectile all in mere seconds. The bolt knocked the winged vampire end over end, causing him to fall slightly before he managed to regain his balance and some amount of altitude. Turel shot another projectile, but the vampire shot into the darkness for a third time. Turel growled softly, annoyed now, and remained in plain sight in defiance of the creature who kept running away from battle.

"If you wish to fight me," he snarled, "come out and _fight_." 

The being laughed. "Oh, _Lord_ Turel, even before our damning evolution, my clan were fighters that relied primarily on their agility. This is even more true now that we possess wings.

"While my brethren of the past, much as your children do, depended on brute strength in battle, we have grown, evolved, and taken different form."

A small surge of outrage welled up in him. "The Razielim have never compared to us in size," he shouted. 

The voice came back, deadly calm. "I was not speaking of the Razielim.... I was referring to my _demonic _brethren." A shadow dropped onto Turel's back and clung, digging his talons into the Vampire Lord's skin. With a roar of anger he reached back, grabbed the cold wrists and flung the younger vampire over his shoulder, slamming him into the floor with an audible _crack _as the creature's wing-bones snapped with the impact. Turel made a wide circle around the fallen vampire, who cursed and rose painfully to his feet. Turel moved swiftly to finish the battle as the vampire was rising, but a pale cloven hand slammed into his chest, a searing hot, and somehow revolting, touch. The Vampire Lord wrenched away with a shout. 

The being backed away carefully, broken wings hanging limply behind him, already beginning to reform themselves. His hand was raised, small ebony flames crawled over his palm and fingers, trailing a sickly greyish-yellow fire at the edges. Magic; old and dark, tainted at the core. In Turel's experience, the only other being to use such magic had been Kain. 

"Are you so poor a fighter that you cannot _truly _wound me?" he asked as the flames dissipated. "You would not stand long against my fledglings, and you will not stand much longer against _me_."

The other vampire regained his bitter smile. "You think much of yourself, but your fledglings are not here... nor will they be arriving." Suspicion crept over Turel's face. "All I need do is call my children to my aid, and your demise." The vampire lord turned, suddenly aware of the audience that waited just out of reach of the light. Emerald flames burned in the darkness, always in pairs, spaced evenly on every wall of the room. "Are all assembled?" the leader asked. He glanced around the room, his eyes passing a fierce look to all the creatures. He nodded once. "Then witness the end of an age... and the beginning of a new," the words seemed to hiss between his teeth, hanging in the air like poisonous fumes. 

The winged vampire raised his hands, brought them up behind his head and down to chest height. The right sat slightly behind the left, as if supporting it, both palms pointed towards Turel. A tongue of the black and yellow flame lit in the vampire's palm, grew larger, dancing upon the surface of the creature's skin. Motes of darkness suddenly appeared in the air around his hands, gathered with the flame, causing it to grow larger still. 

A growl started low in Turel's throat. He sank into a crouch, readying his weight to go rushing across the chamber. He moved, took one small step, and then threw himself into a full out run. 

The winged vampire smiled eerily at him, still holding the fire in his palm, which grew larger, and larger with each passing second, flickering in response to the fire of his eyes.

The other winged vampires in the shadows watched in anticipation as their leader and the second-born Lieutenant of Kain drew closer together. Turel reached out, still running, and the winged vampire let go of his spell. The stream of fire, more intense than the first time, flowed into the Vampire Lord's chest, driving him backward into the wall. Turel's back hit the cold stone, followed an instant later by his head, but both pains were ignorable with the comparison of the flame. 

The beam grew wider, spreading from the center of his chest to encompass his shoulders and neck. Turel tilted his head back, trembling, trying to keep his face from the fire. The pain of it seared, but did not devour his flesh, yet it intensified as the winged vampire moved forward. The other sensation, that which was revolting to him, he could not truly identify, but he imagined it was the feeling of decay. The rotting sensation was torture all on its own, feeling his flesh turning diseased, to gelatinous fluid, finally peeling, falling off. 

_So this is what Melchiah felt for so many years,_ he thought. The feeling brought him a strange, momentary connection with his youngest brother. Turel's anger grew with the pain and disgust, but he could not stand against the force of sensation. The Vampire Lord was slowly but surely losing all hold on consciousness.

Far from the roaring in his ears he heard the voice of the winged vampire. "A fighter I may not be, _Lord _Turel... but the superior magician I most _certainly _am." The fire dissipated then, the sudden absence of pain causing him to collapse in shock. He sank to his knees and looked up at the vampire, completely spent, but defiance burning in his eyes. 

The winged one looked down upon him with something like despair in his emerald gaze. Without knowing why he did so, Turel spoke. "What is it that you want? Revenge?"

"Death," the creature said simply, emotionlessly. Then the bitter, insane smile returned. "Yet I must be satisfied with your torture. Amusing, is it not? You could have fled... my children are far from perfect soldiers, and had you fled when I first appeared to you, you would have escaped. The great _Lord _Turel... mightiest warrior of Kain's army," the smile became a sneer. "Captured by his inability to back down from a fight."

Turel was losing the battle with unconsciousness, and he fell to the floor at the creature's feet. The whispering voice followed him into oblivion. "Enjoy your nap... upon waking you shall find yourself in a position even _more _uncomfortable than this."

One thought followed him into an all-encompassing darkness. _All the sons of Kain... destroyed by their own folly._

Adojan stared down at the fallen Vampire Lord. His face was impassive, emotionless. The still burning green eyes held something that looked like regret, or sadness, or perhaps a despairing resignation to fate. Whatever it was, it was gone when the Hylden turned to face his creations. 

"Take him to the Pillars and the place that has been prepared for him."

Four Hylden moved forward to lift the unconscious vampire while another spoke. "Will you not return with us, Sire?"

Adojan drew himself up slightly, disgust coiling within him at the sound of the last word. "No," he said shortly. "Now do as I bid." He turned, ignoring the winged demons who bowed as he passed, and moved towards a door that would take him further into the hold.

South of Dark Eden, the Chronoplast chamber was silent, the portal at the top of the stairs empty. Then, as if invisible hands had taken hold of them, the dials on all sides turned with the grinding of metal, to new positions. The shimmering gate spilled out into the room and collected again in the portal, waiting to admit the passengers of time. 

The first figure appeared, landing lightly on the stone stairway, and put a hand to one aching temple. The other passenger landed a few seconds later and spared only a brief glance at the first. 

"It is no more discomforting than a teleportation spell," the second one said, moving down the stairs. 

The first passenger smiled slightly. "Your concern for me is touching, Kain."

The white-haired vampire turned to his companion. "We have precious little time, Vorador, and none of it can be wasted in quelling a headache." 

As short as their acquaintance had been, Vorador found this display of impatience uncommon in his newfound ally. Kain noticed his look of curiosity and the ancient face smoothed into an expressionless mask. "Shall we go?" Kain asked courteously. Vorador raised an eyebrow, but did not comment, placing a hand on the other vampire's shoulder. Both were caught up in the spell of teleportation and disappeared. Mere minutes later, the dials turned again, the portal closed, and the Chronoplast chamber was silent once more.

========================================

*Dances around* And _that's _my Addy!

Adojan- *annoyed* Can I go now?

Syvia- Why bother? You'll be in chapter 9 before long.

Adojan- So _you _say, but look how long it took you to finish _this _chapter.

Syvia- I have a prospective four pages of chapter 8 already finished. *smiles* You'll be back before you know it.

Adojan- *deadpan* Oh joy.


	10. The Backwaters of Passing Time

Copyright © 2002 by Syvia (Aka Rebecca K. Friedrick). All Rights Reserved.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. Adojan the Hylden and all of the Ancients except Janos are my brain children. If you want the full list- check out the dictionary in the back. ^_^ 

I got help from these sources:

I used the Prima strategy guides for BO2 & SR2 for pics of the games and info. 

Blincoln's site; http://www.peak.sfu.ca/~blincoln/lok/ for inspiration given by the cut scenes and dialogue from each of the games (which I also don't own, even though they were cut out *pouts*)

And SilverEnigma's site http://www.darkchronicle.co.uk/archive/bomap.html (she has kick-ass pictures of just about _everything_ in her archive, which I looked at while writing.) 

As well as my buddies from FF.net, who are still helping me gain new insight into the characters of LoK and giving me new things to think about. *huggles them*

Author's Notes: You'll notice that the title of this chapter is part of a quote from Bo2. *wide grin* I just love that quote.

Zofia- *trying to pull the chapter from Syvia's death-grip* Sweetie... let the chapter go. It's time to post.

Syvia- It still needs rewriting! 

Zofia- It needs to be posted before you go on vacation!

*Zofia manages to pry the chapter from her creator's grip and flies away quickly*

Syvia- You come back here! 

Zofia- *at a great distance* Fix it to your satisfaction after you've completed the fic!

Chapter 8

The Backwaters of Passing Time

__

Nosgoth ~ 254 A.C. ~ The Sickened World

_Burning... he was burning. The sensations traveling from his skin had been narrowed down to a bundle of screaming nerves. He was in excruciating pain, debilitating agony... which never ended, or lessened, or even increased. He was in pain, and that was all._

The screaming... dimly he could hear a noise, a hollow sort of shouting that echoed in his ears. Somehow he knew it was coming from his own mouth; a mouth that burned with the same fierce pain as the rest of his body. 

He heard the screaming, which was an uncontrolled admission that he felt the searing, acidic touch of the water that surrounded him, and the soft roar underlying that scream which was the sound of his flesh, hissing as it dissolved. But in the haze of pain, it didn't seem real.

Whether time flew or crawled, he did not know. At some later moment, he noticed the outside screaming had ceased. This was little comfort, however, as the screaming in his mind continued. The only thing to keep his tortured awareness company was a depthless anger, an endless rage against the one who had used him and cast him away with such ease, thrown him into this endless torment. 

The fury burned in harmony with his pain, each fueling the other so both burned higher, hotter and greater than either had in the beginning. Suddenly it became too much- he was going mad.

He refused to fade; to be drawn into non-existence, but his mind was crumbling under the onslaught of pain. Then... it stopped. He pushed it away, dividing from it- driving the sensation into a small corner of his mind. He disconnected from it so completely that the physical pain disappeared. 

He continued to scream, shouting his rage, the feelings of abandonment and betrayal, never noticing as another voice joined in the screaming. The other's shriek was combined in part with a laugh, neither of which sounded sane. His pain and deadly anger deepened, seeping into the core of his soul, until-

the Reaver released him. 

Raziel lay on his side, remembering what silence sounded like. Had he possessed lungs, he might have been panting, listening to his breath as it moved in and out. He watched dazedly as the wraith blade uncoiled itself from his body and collected within his arm. It flared briefly before fading into his flesh. 

The Abyss. It had shown him the Abyss. But why? 

Now, as before, when he remembered the Lake of the Dead, he felt a sense of injury. Insulted and, though he seldom admitted it, hurt at having been executed so easily by Kain. Tossed away with no reasons given and seemingly no thought to the thousand years of loyal service he'd given his Lord.

_Now _he had sense enough to think beyond his own pain and indignation. He could imagine the plans Kain must have made, the centuries of plotting and endless scheming, but to what end? To somehow keep him from the Reaver blade and do- what? Kain had not told him anything- not really. The Soul Reaver found himself saved and damned again, and the Hylden, whoever they were, had laid a trap to be sprung in this specific situation. Raziel's eyes narrowed in amusement and he chuckled softly. What irony. To plan for so long, only to find that your enemy, once again, has prepared for your action. 

_Kain schemes and conspires and it changes, _nothing_._ The thought only added to the mental fatigue that had overtaken his senses- leaving him broken down, exhausted. His magically constructed body was whole, powerful, in a state that was as close to perfection as it could attain, yet he still felt devoid of energy, defenseless. 

The blade, again, had overcome him. That the wraith could manifest itself regularly in the Physical Realm, even take him over, was disconcerting. The blade's ability to come upon him so often was an indication of just how much control it had gained. 

In the past he would have felt anger, perhaps fear that he could be controlled so easily. Now it only made him weary and a touch annoyed. He had no fear of what happened to his body, for the Reaver protected his body while he underwent the visions, that the stream of sensation might not be interrupted. Waking in an unknown location, however, was wearisome, as it hampered his search for the exit. In the past, he might have felt differently, but that was the past. 

He had lived days... months... decades within the Prison. Raziel did not truly know how long it had been. The marking of time was a difficult puzzle. Had he been able to see outside, there wouldn't have been any signs of the passing of day or night. The Prison was covered by storm clouds that never moved, dissipated, or even released water. The outside was unchanging, and so too, was the inside. He made a point of asking the prisoners what year it was, but by the time they didn't shrink away from him in fear, or scream when he approached them, they were insane, and the information they offered about their world was unreliable at best.

Raziel had little taste for the human prisoners. For their company _or _their souls. They were wretched, pitiful creatures, with little to live for, and, those who were still sane enough to understand the horror of their existence, little taste for life. 

There had been a time, during the early years of his imprisonment, that Raziel had killed the prisoners out of a misguided sense of mercy. They'd thanked him- those still possessing any sense- but many ran, calling for the Wardens, who berated him for disrupting their experiments and attempted to herd him into the laboratories. Before long Raziel had left them completely- retreating to the rooms where few ever ventured. There were many indoor pools and aqua ducts in the Prison, which Raziel supposed, powered something within the prison. What, he did not know. The aquatic tunnels, although they did not lead to freedom, were fine places to evade his captors, as the Wardens would command him to emerge from the depths, but not come in after him.

There were some places that he could not be touched by _any_, even in the Spectral Realm. He would fade, wait in Spectral until he had strength enough to return to the Physical Realm. Raziel imagined he'd spent decades in these nooks, having repeated this cycle many times. These places were useful, as the wraith blade sometimes drained him, deliberately, to pull him into the Spectral Realm, where it could impose its will more strongly upon his mind.

In this instance, the wraith blade had come upon him in the laboratory, drawing him away from the screaming of the prisoners and into the screams of his past victims as he, the wraith blade, tore through their flesh. From there they had moved from the blade's past, to his own, and the memory of his execution.

Screaming voices could be heard almost constantly in the Eternal Prison, yet it didn't bother him. A cacophony of screams had been present throughout the walls of every vampiric territory during the days of the empire. One became accustomed to it- leaning to ignore the noise completely. The near silence told Raziel he was not in the laboratory now.

The Soul Reaver assumed his jailers had transported him away in order to free the table for another prisoner, and put the matter out of his mind. Raziel moved his arms slowly, grunting softly as he maneuvered into a sitting position and acquired a better look at his surroundings. 

Textured grey stone, uncut-looking yet smooth to the touch, met his sight. An arched doorway- and stairs which led down to the ground on which he sat. These things he saw without bothering to turn around. Around the room were iron sconces, holding pale white fire. 

He turned and took in the scene at his back. Dark, violet-grey clouds moved silently above- and, as one would see if they looked over the edge of the stone pathways- beneath the landmass. Raziel wondered at times if Moebius had collaborated with another of the Guardians during the creation of this place. The strange locations and insane proportions of the rooms within the Prison suggested the power of some other Guardian than that of Time.

A mountainous mass of stone towered before him, staircases lining the near side. Raziel rose and moved forward. Looking up, he saw cages suspended above the stone, the chains that held them reaching up, and up, to finally disappear into the clouds that hung over them.

The Soul Reaver sighed. Another new place, another trail to blaze. Raziel turned calmly as a hand, small and frail, wrapped in white bandages, prodded him tentatively in the shoulder.

"Biscut? Have ya' got a biscut?"

"No," he answered, rising. 

The woman, he could only identify the figure as such because of the high pitch of her voice, wrapped abused hands around his arm and followed as he paced away. 

"He took it- he shouldn't have- we only get one a day and he took it-"

Raziel shook his head, partly in sympathy, partly in annoyance. He thought indignantly that the woman wouldn't have known day from night any better than he. But 'day' was only a figure of speech and Raziel could understand the woman's anxiety. 

Begging for food was common among the prisoners. The bread wafers they called 'biscuits' were rationed. The humans could not die from lack of food, but the Wardens withheld it in an attempt to remove their gluttonous behavior. The prisoners were given food as reward for good behavior, and sometimes to stop their endless babbling. 

Raziel gained sustenance about as often as the prisoners. He'd given up on devouring the prisoners that did not take their own lives, and between the soulless Wardens and the Demons who never gave him a moment to feed, he too was being starved.

"Just one- please! Biscuit... biscuit..." 

"I haven't any biscuits," he murmured, gently extracting his arm from the woman's grasp. He walked away, leaving her there. The woman whimpered softly and shuffled away, arms out, feeling her way around the area. 

Raziel watched her for a few moments, then turned, and without a backward glance, set his foot on the first step.

Raziel moved up the staircase, musing over the female prisoner, whose image had stayed in his mind. 

The Soul Reaver did not know if the imprisoned deserved their place in this hell. If his case was any indication, a good number of the Eternal Prisoners were only victims of circumstance. 

He sometimes caught glimpses of men and women dressed in glowing armor, bringing peasants and what he assumed were nobility into the prison. He searched for the door by which they entered, but never managed to find it. If the exit had gone undiscovered by him, he was certain that no prisoner had found it. 

The prisoners came in unspoiled, but did not exist long in their unaltered state. The Wardens were quick to move them into the laboratories, and then came the experiments.

A glint of metal caught his eye. Propped against a wall, Raziel noticed a bronze axe. The Soul Reaver picked up the weapon and swung it once or twice, testing the balance. The blade had seen use- no telling how old it was, but it would serve in a fight or two. Raziel continued along the corridor, caught up once again in his thoughts.

He was amused once again by the irony of the Warden's opinions. After all the snide comments and taunts of his now deceased brothers and the various creatures he'd met on his journey- here were beings who thought his form to be perfect. His transformation was the result of a spiritual change, they said. His outer form perfectly matched his inner nature, they said.

Raziel's brows furrowed in annoyance. After Moebius had left him here, the Wardens had gleefully examined him- endlessly fascinated by this creature that existed with so recognizable eyes- no mouth, and practically no organs. They had attempted to discern the method by which Raziel had achieved 'the perfect balance between spirit and flesh'. 

He fought down an acid feeling of disgust at the thought. He'd spent quite a bit of time, strapped to the examination tables, the Wardens looking at his body for inspiration on how to proceed with their human victims. The experiments were revolting to him, not for the sake of the human's pain, or his own small measure of discomfort; he had, after all, tortured a few humans in his time, and the tests were nothing compared to the torment of the Abyss. It was the lack of purpose and the waste of... things, that disgusted him.

The Warden's mad endeavor to discover perfect balance led them to create monstrosities that began life as human. Human torsos- detached from limbs, their lower jaws removed- hung on metal hooks and somehow remained alive. Their spinal cords hung, clean and white, beneath their chests. They had no entrails. At times, Raziel found himself looking up at these things from his prone position, almost snickering at the resemblance between these tortured souls and himself. Many times in these moments did he recall Mortanius' words. '-one either laughs, or goes mad.' 

The more fortunate prisoners' bodies were mutilated, skin flayed from the fingers and toes and sutured together as a crude parody of cloven hands, but they were not dismembered. The eyes were removed and the lids stitched together, in imitation of his seemingly eye-less state. 

Some of the prisoners had been rendered mute, their would-be raving of madness reduced to pathetic humming and muffled screams. The pitiful repetitions; begging for food or sometimes sleep, were almost preferable to the mumbling. Worse, perhaps, were the frantic babbling and tearful stories told by the newest prisoners. 

He had seen the wasted wrecks of humans that came out of the laboratories long before he had gone in himself. Nevertheless, the Wardens had not waited long before summoning him to the cutting boards.

Raziel stilled abruptly, his thoughts interrupted by a familiar sound. He sank quickly into the shadows, and closing his eyes, he waited, listening. He had long ago begun to recognize the sound of mechanical whirring and the hissing of air as the Wardens' calling card. His jailers barely troubled him any longer, but one never knew. Perhaps one of the creatures had suddenly gotten bored with their human prisoners and longed for a repeat of the original experiments. It had happened before, and they had come looking for him.

Raziel had been uncooperative at first. As the Wardens could not overpower him; only keep him from escaping, he killed them with ease. It had been then that he discovered something unexpected. The creatures had blood, but no souls. However the Wardens were powered- he could not keep them from returning to life. Their bodies remained behind instead of falling to dust as Nosgoth's future vampires had. After some amount of time, the corpse reanimated and came back to torment him. He had attempted, once, to tear one of the bodies apart after 'killing' it, but as he attempted to do so, the demons had come upon him, proving that the Elder God would object to complete destruction of the Wardens.

After this discovery, Raziel had swallowed enough pride to run after having cut the Wardens down. In this way, he evaded them for long periods of time. Despite the wraith blade's lack of cooperation, they were easy enough for Raziel to defeat. 

The demons were a different case entirely. 

They would explode from their own dimension, spells in hand, growling his name and hungering for his magically constructed flesh. Raziel fought them as well as he was able, sometimes with a stray sword or spear he found lying about the prison, but the sting of those blades was no more than a pinprick upon the demons' hides. 

Without the willing aid of the wraith blade, the demons were more difficult to kill. Once upon a time, three or four would have easily overpower him. But now, having spent endless battles killing them, watching their constant, unvarying fighting strategies, he could decimate the ranks of their fighters. The demons, although they marked him often enough, had trouble striking death blows. 

He would fight as long as possible, but eventually he became too tired to sustain physical form. The demons seldom left him enough time to feed, and they came, wave after wave, exploding out of their dimension. He would fade into the Spectral Realm, where he was stronger- but where the demons were even _larger _in number. It was here that they would 'discipline' him.

In the Physical Realm, pain was marginal. In the Spectral, there was a broader range of the unwelcome sensation, and a greater amount of it. 

In the past, it had been interesting to Raziel that the sluagh, among the weakest of the creatures he'd faced, caused him more pain with _their _attacks than the strongest creatures of the Physical Realm.

The only instances he could remember where he had felt great pain in the Physical world were when Kain or one of the Elder's demons had struck him with a spell. Magical attacks pained magical flesh.

He had been taught this in great detail by the demons. They fought him to the brink of exhaustion, allowed him to regain a minor amount of strength, and attacked him again. Different methods were used each time. 

The Acid Demons made use of their toxin, the Gas Demons; their noxious fumes. The Lightning Demons would lift him into the air, magical energy coursing through his limbs. The Fire Demons would loft magic flame, and the Black would use their massive claws. 

The pain was excruciating, but nothing he had not experienced before. The only new aspect of this punishment was the lack of purpose. It wasn't meant to teach him anything, or give him strength, although he was now more skilled a fighter than he had been. Kain, as a ruler, had punished his children quite harshly, but always for a reason. Raziel shook his head ironically at the thought. Even his execution had had a reason behind it. If Raziel had been given it, perhaps he would feel more understanding towards his creator.

In its way, this torture was much like the Abyss had been, if perhaps, less painful. Both torments had been inflicted upon him by the command of someone more powerful, and both seemed to serve no more purpose than to serve the whim of that powerful being. 

The demons had only a moderate amount of intelligence, but their sheer strength and brutality was unmatched. Where Kain's corporal punishments had been coupled with insult upon cutting insult, there were few of those here. What Raziel _did _take notice of was the soft, malignant laughter in the back of his mind which sounded suspiciously like the Elder God. It was another vague indication of the time period that the voice of his otherworldly 'benefactor' could not yet reach him in the Physical Realm.

As far as Raziel was from the many-limbed horror's lair, the Elder was very present within the Spectral Realm.

Before long, Raziel had allowed the Wardens to inspect him with little resistance. They had pulled, prodded, sliced, smashed and dismembered his pitiful body. Raziel had endured it all with a kind of detached disgust. The pain was negligible throughout the procedures and detached limbs could be regained by time spent in the Spectral Realm. While he had still been weak against the demons, the tests were preferable, in their way, to being 'disciplined' by the Elder's minions. Time continued to move in the Physical Realm, and when he emerged from the laboratories, Raziel could once again search for a way out of the prison. 

After his captors' curiosity had been satisfied, they allowed him to roam the prison, confined only by his inability to journey past the outer walls. 

The sound finally moved on, growing softer, and Raziel opened his eyes. A pair of yellow globes hung an inch from his face. The Soul Reaver flinched in surprise.

"We require your presence in the examining rooms," the voice said, harsh imperiousness in its tone. The hissing of air sped up, and the Warden became visible, rising a few inches from the ground.

Raziel's eyes narrowed. He raised the axe, shifting into an offensive stance as he spoke, "You'll have to catch me first." 

He ran through the corridor, throwing the axe handle back at the Wardens as he went. Raziel emerged in a larger room, caught sight of burning crosses that dotted the floor in the distance. He skidded to a halt as padded rods slammed down in front of him. Raziel glanced back at the approaching Wardens and with no further hesitation he faded into the Spectral Realm. Ignoring the sluagh, who hissed in surprise, he phased through the bars that surrounded him. 

Raziel moved quickly through the enormous room, and after a few wrong turns, found the exit, where he pulled back into the Physical Realm. He turned, and jumped out of the way of a massive black arm.

"You are unwise to call attention to yourself, Raziel," the Black Demon growled, moving towards him. Raziel ducked under bowed shoulders as the creature rushed him and ran through the corridor, cursing his luck. Now, not only were the Wardens after him, but the demons as well. 

Raziel raced through the doorway and into a circular room. Warden statues were spaced in regular intervals around the edge of a pool of water. Perfect. The Soul Reaver plunged into the pool and swam to the very bottom, hiding near a pedestal in the center. He watched as six demons moved into the room. There were three Gas Demons, two of Fire, and a Lightning Demon. They searched the walls, looking around. A moment before he thought they would leave, one pointed to the water. 

Raziel had learned long ago that the demons were more intelligent than they looked- either that, or the Elder God held enough power over them to do their reasoning Itself. The Gas Demons faded, and with a flash of rippling electricity, they were replaced by a dozen Lightning Demons. 

Raziel cursed silently as a demon moved into place between each of the statues. They raised their claws as one, charged the deadly power they commanded, and plunged their claws into the pool. The Soul Reaver launched upward like a fish jumping out of water, grabbing hold of the pedestal as pale lightning flared across the surface of the water.

"We meet again, little Raziel," the Fire Demon growled. The vampire wraith wasted no words on the creature, shot a telekinetic blast at one of the Lightning Demons. The shot was exactly on target, hitting the creature's foot. The blast was not charged, but powerful enough for the demon to lose its balance, momentarily tottering on one foot before it fell into the pool, electrocuted by its own lightning. 

Raziel was halfway across the pool before the other demons reacted. A fireball screamed past him, peeling flesh from his leg. The pain pierced him, but Raziel made no noise, only held out his wings and coaxed the Reaver into manifesting. He landed on the stone walkway and leapt into battle. The Soul Reaver cut down two Lightning Demons and dodged out of the way as a demon showered four others with its fiery breath destroying them instantly. He took just enough time to pull in one of those wandering souls before running for the door he'd seen on the other side of the room. Raziel got to the doorway and took cover just inside. Silence. 

He edged around the doorway and caught the sight of the Wardens moving about in the room, one caught sight of him and called to the others. His eyes narrowed. Raziel turned and jumped over the edge, the Wardens shouting after him as they clustered behind the banister. Raziel turned, quickly studying his surroundings.

It was then he realized where he was. This was the front entryway, the one Moebius used to bring him here. The statue chamber. Here was his exit, here were the enormous metal doors which had no handles, no visible means of being opened, and here, in the center of the chamber, still sneering, was the statue of Moebius. 

His jailers were making their way in, so Raziel threw himself at the statue, scaled the stone likeness of the Time Streamer and jumped into one of the alcoves in the wall. He became a lighter shadow against the dark, peering at the ground for some sign of the Wardens. They moved in slowly, looking around. Deciding that he must be in some other part of the prison, they left. 

_The former Guardians must not have been _that _impressive if their creations cannot find me, when the demons _can_, _Raziel thought amusedly. Safe for the moment, the Soul Reaver moved from his niche, gliding to the floor in front of the dais. He turned slowly, and took his second long look at the statue.

He stared, remembering his dealings with the Time Streamer as if the events had occurred in another life, and perhaps they had. Perhaps Raziel had dwelt within Moebius' slice of hell long enough for a lifetime, or even two... but a human lifetime, or vampire's? 

Words from long ago formed in his mind, echoed in the statue's sneer. 

_'...Poor, deluded Raziel... _

...I'm _the Time-Streamer - I knew your every intention before you did, you imbecile... _

...did you imagine I'd simply allow you to run lose, corrupting everything you encounter...?

...you never imagined someone could be following after you... into the creature's private chambers...

...you are the Circle's assassin, Raziel...

...I shall be the one holding the sword... and you shall be the one within _it...'_

Raziel's eyes narrowed. He raised a hand, slowly, steadily, and held it, palm out towards the statue. For a moment the very air held its breath. Then there was a clap of displaced air erupting through the stillness.

The rush of movement struck the stone likeness in the chest, shaking a cloud of dust from the structure. Otherwise, nothing happened.

He pulled projectile after projectile from the core of his being and hurled them at the stone facsimile of his hated enemy, growling in the back of his throat.

Raziel continued to fire at the statue, neglecting to control his aim, and a shot went wide of the center, hitting the Stone Moebius' staff. The dark stone cracked and eight feet of staff toppled to the ground with a thunderous clatter. Raziel whirled around as a growling voice began to make chiding noises at him. A Black Demon slunk out of the shadows beneath one of the Warden statues. 

"Feeling your inadequacy once again?" it growled amusedly. The Soul Reaver was instantly on his guard. He heard the heavy tread of the creature's fellows behind him. Raziel's gaze flicked to the side of the room, a wall against which he could put his back, and he edged towards it, turning slowly, keeping the first demon in his sights while bringing the others into view.

One growled softly, cloven hands spread, teeth bared. It crept towards him at that familiar, ungainly pace, red eyes burning at him. Another growl came from his left, where two more demons had appeared, their spines glinting cruelly in the dim light. Raziel summoned the Reaver, which sluggishly answered his call. Sensing the demons, it suddenly became hungry for battle. Raziel stood with his back to the wall, the five demons arranged in a wide circle around him. 

They faced off, the five of them, each seeming to be waiting for something. Then one of the demons growled, took two steps forward and hurled a fireball at Raziel's chest. He crouched down and fired a telekinetic blast in response before turning and slashing at the other demon who'd used that opportunity to close the distance between them. The Reaver caught the demon on its arm, was swept off his feet by another, who charged in from the front. As he slammed backward into the wall, Raziel felt his flesh beginning to go, becoming more dust and vapor than tissue. He looked up and lunged around to the back of the demon before him. Two quick passes with the Reaver and the demon disappeared, its soul flying free for a bare instant before the blade pulled it in. The wraith blade was thrumming upon his arm, distracting him and further loosening his already tenuous hold on the Physical Realm. 

A fireball caught him on the shoulder and Raziel swung around to face another of the demonic group. The massive beast growled in pleasure and slammed its clenched fists down, intending to crush the Soul Reaver beneath them. Raziel dodged the massive hands and slashed at its back, pulled the reaver in and used telekinetic blasts to send it after its brother. Raziel ducked another blow and sprung to the dais, barely avoiding the third demon as it spewed fire at him. The vampire wraith took shelter beneath the Time Streamer's statue. He snatched at the demonic soul, only to leave off the pull in favor of ducking away from another fireball. He pulled again, this time taking the soul into his being, and was rewarded by the feel of energy returning, his flesh strengthening, solidifying. 

He shuffled backwards, keeping his eye a demon behind him, which was slowly moving up the stairs. It rushed him and Raziel jumped off the dais, the demon continued its headlong rush at the vampire wraith, the massive horns on its shoulders biting into the statue, causing it to rock dangerously on its feet. Raziel and the last demon faced off before the dais, unaware. The demon beside the statue chuckled darkly and pounded his fists against the stone, rocking it once again. The third blow sounded against the statue and _was _noticed as Moebius' statue tilted forward slowly. 

Raziel cast startled eyes up as the stone image came crashing down, crushing the Soul Reaver and his opponent into the Spectral Realm. Raziel came to himself after a moment, and was staring into the face of the Black Demon, leading nearly fifty of his brethren. 

"Now is it _our _turn to play," it snarled. 

Raziel manifested some unknown time later on a high ledge, unreachable from the Physical Realm. Staggering, even though he was at full strength, he jumped out, grasped his wings to glide around, and grabbed the wall beside him. Raziel climbed up, jumped from the highest point and glided to another alcove. He did this twice more before settling on a ledge. The Soul Reaver sank to the ground, as close to the iron bars covering the window as he could get. 

Numbly he stared out at the room, taking note of the statue, broken across the ground in a dozen pieces. He looked at the six Warden statues, two guarding the doors- the other four taking up residence in a semi-circle around them. A soft, dark chuckle echoed from the Soul Reaver for a moment, directed at the Time Streamer's statue. After a moment, he leaned back, absorbing the calm. 

A pair of Acid Demons exploded into the room, dropping from thin air in flashes of green light. They dropped to the ground and moved through the room below, looking around. Raziel curled into a ball, narrowed his eyes, watching them. They searched the walls for him for a few moments, specifically, the place he'd used to manifest into the Physical Realm, then turned suddenly, staring at something only they could see. They whirled around as one and ran a few steps before disappearing into the Spectral Realm.

Raziel remained in his curled position, suspecting a trap, or the possible arrival of something much worse. Suddenly a change of magic filled the air. A circle of power, formed of light, appeared on the floor a split second before two forms appeared in the room.

The Soul Reaver held perfectly still, waiting for a clear glimpse of the new arrivals. One was of a height with himself. A vampire fledgling who still possessed human fingers, clawed though they were. Raziel took in the grey garb which seemed to be some kind of uniform. There was a patch of bright red over the vampire's heart that, although small, bore an all too familiar insignia. 

_A servant of Kain's?_ he thought. _Certainly not one that _I _remember._

Raziel's interest grew. Perhaps these two could give him a hint as to the era in which he currently resided.

The Soul Reaver turned his eyes to the other and looked in astonishment at what he saw. 

The creature was humanoid, but muscled more heavily than most humans Raziel had seen. It was clothed in a grand suit of golden armor with a strange insignia on a drape of cloth hanging about his waist. It too, was oddly familiar, resembling an altered version of the Sarafan sigil. The gold face mask and glowing green eyes helped to mark the creature as not human. 

The fledgling stared blankly into space for a few moments, long enough for Raziel to realized the vampire was under some sort of spell. 

His companion chuckled, a malevolent rumble of sound that carried throughout the room. Raziel's eyes narrowed. Somehow the voice was eerily familiar. The being turned and two things happened simultaneously. Raziel caught sight of the spiral hilt of a familiar sword, a fanged skull that rippled with violet light, and the wraith within him quickened as it sensed the energy of its younger twin, writhing inside the Reaver blade. 

A voice whispered to him of the sweet pain and hunger of souls- the rending of flesh, and he was tempted, oh so tempted, to rush the creature, seize the Reaver and bury up to the hilt in his chest. 

The moment passed slowly. As the now broken statue reminded him, Moebius was owed quite a bit of pain and suffering, and Raziel wished to repay that debt personally. 

The Reaver whispered to its twin, reveling in the contact with its past self, and, released, Raziel's mind reeled with the implications of the creature's presence. What time _was _this? Never in Raziel's memory had Kain let the Reaver out of his grasp. He was in the past, but how far? 

The creature seemed unaware of the sword's peculiar behavior, was intent on the young vampire. He continued chuckling and snapped his fingers, deactivating the spell, pulling the vampire into sudden consciousness. 

He blinked once, then turned and dropped into a defensive posture before the creature. "What did you do to me, Sarafan Lord?" he hissed angrily.

_What_? Raziel wondered, suddenly more interested.

"You needed a lesson in humility, Magnus. A little spell and a you fell to the ground before my feet."

"Bastard," the vampire snarled. That was all he said before launching himself at the creature. The move was graceful, controlled, despite the rage that fuelled it, but the green-eyed creature was faster, drawing the Soul Reaver. It brought the vampire to a halt, the tip of the blade at is pale throat.

"The battle is over, Magnus," the being said calmly, "and by my new blade, I assume you can guess the victor."

"What have you done to my Liege Lord?" Magnus cried.

The cruel voice laughed, sounding infinitely pleased, "Your Liege is dead by my hand."

The vampire screamed, enraged, and leapt at the Sarafan Lord, heedless of the blade at his throat. The being caught Magnus by the throat and flung him to the ground, casting an idle lightning bolt at the vampire. 

Through it all, Raziel felt a wild urge to laugh. He dared not give away his presence, but felt greatly amused by the situation he now witnessed. All this melodrama... and Kain wasn't even dead. He would have smiled, had he been able.

"I ran him through with my magic and pushed him off a cliff, to his death," the creature snickered. "As his champion, it is your place to challenge me to a fight, to the death... but we both know you cannot best me. I would rather have the strongest of Kain's soldiers for my bodyguard." Magnus gritted his teeth in disgust. The Sarafan Lord continued, unconcerned. "Of course, if not, you could remain here... in the Eternal Prison."

"I would throw myself to a watery death before I even _thought _about serving _you_," the vampire hissed.

"How unfortunate," the other murmured blandly. "Enjoy the duration of your un-life then, Magnus... it will last far longer than you will come to wish." The Sarafan Lord disappeared, and with him went the insistent pull of the other Soul Reaver.

Raziel sighed and leaned back, watching as the fledgling ran at the doors, clawing madly at the enormous metal surfaces. He jumped slightly and turned as a familiar flash of light appeared and the Wardens arrived to take charge of their new prisoner.

Magnus whirled around, his expression alarm tinged with disgust at the sight of the Wardens. They moved forward, mechanical parts whirring softly. 

"A vampire," one of the constructs noted, drifting forward. 

"The experiments will have to be modified," the other said, as if making a mental note. Magnus backed away, finally bumping into the doors at his back. He held out his hands, fingers splayed, waiting for the moment to attack. They bore down on him, hefting their scythes. Magnus bared his fangs and crouched down, ready to spring.

Suddenly, behind him, there was a shout and the whistle of claws moving through the air. A pale blue arm was visible behind the Warden's body for only a second.

The construct went down easily, with a surprised shout. The other turned.

"What are you doing?" It shouted at its attacker like a parent scolding a naughty child. There was no response as the claws flashed again and the other fell to the ground. Magnus was crouched on the ground, still ready to attack. When the Wardens were gone, he looked up, at a being made of flesh and bone and glowing blue eyes.

It gestured to the fallen beings and spoke. "They will revive before long. I suggest you leave before that happens."

"Who are you?" Magnus asked, staring in amazement at the creature. 

It gave a small laugh. "A prisoner. Like you." Then it turned, moving quickly up the ramp. After a moment, Magnus rose and followed.

==========================

*grins* And there are some peeps from BO2! *grins* Sowwy people, but that's all. No one but Magnus & the Sarafan Lord- except for possible flashbacks.

Mutilated Magnus- You gave me a part!!!!!! *grabs Syvia and crushes her to his... chest* Oh thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou! I'll get my requisitioned portions of meat and a new friend to play with!

*Pats Magnus on the head* Okay, okay. You're welcome.... Magnus... put me down please.


	11. The Blood of Ages

Copyright © 2002 by Syvia (Aka Rebecca K. Friedrick). All Rights Reserved.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. Adojan the Hylden and all of the Ancients except Janos are my brain children. If you want the full list- check out the Who's Who section in the back. ^_^ 

Author's Notes:

Syvia- See? Here you are, back already.

Adojan- *snidely* So sad that your output has been slowed by the onset of Junior Year.

Syvia- *sweet smile* So sad that Kain's arrival is going to chafe your master's ass.

*both glare daggers at each other*

Syvia- *smiling normally at the readers* I got the editing done while listening to the FFX soundtrack CD. *two thumbs up for Squaresoft* It helped a _lot_.

Adojan- Oh really? *snatches the CD out of her computer and races away with it*

Syvia- *gasps and runs after him* Come back here with that you bat-winged bastard!

Chapter 9

The Blood of Ages

__

Nosgoth ~ 2012 A. C. ~ The Dying World

Adojan stood at a balcony that overlooked the Great Forge of Dark Eden. The fires burned. Centuries had passed since a sword had last been heated upon these flames, yet they burned. 

Even though the Lord of Dark Eden was gone, the fires burned. 

The blaze was fueled, even now, by the magic of two dozen Turelim vampires. Their only purpose in life- to keep the bellows moving at all times. There was the distinct possibility that they had not even been informed of Turel's capture, and knew nothing but that they must keep the fire burning.

The conflagration was fifty feet in diameter, fueled by the flesh of the vampire laborers, who peeled strip after strip of skin from their bodies and casted them into the hungry blaze. 

As high as he was above the forge, Adojan found the super-heated air almost unbearably hot; hot enough to cause a vampire instantaneous combustion. That didn't stop him. The Hylden Commander shielded his eyes for a moment, then jumped out over the blaze, wings snapping out and locking in place, allowing him to spiral upwards on the hellish breeze. 

The pungent smoke assaulted his nose and he grimaced, grinding his teeth as he floated upward. Adojan closed his eyes, tolerating the gritty, stifling warmth of the air about him, the feel of the fiery wind on his already repugnant wings a most delicate torture. 

He sank teeth slowly into his lips, licked the blood quickly, using the poor distraction to keep his mind occupied. He bit into the inside of his mouth and found that despite his skin's swiftness to re-close, it gave more blood than gnawing on his lip. He reopened the cut many times, rolled the blood on his tongue for a moment before allowing it to run down his throat.

Even _this _was corrupted, Adojan noticed with a smirk. The cold, faintly metallic taste of the liquid was combined with the sickly sweet flavor of death. It rolled down his throat, the taste lulling his senses despite the loathsome added seasoning of his vampiric essence. 

It drew him into a place out of time. He remembered power he used to wield, rejoining flesh and bone in a wash of power, warmth and well-being. 

The sunlight brought him back. Diluted, weak, it barely touched his senses.

Had he been human, he wouldn't have felt it, but a part of him, however small it might have become, was a vampire. For a thousand years his very bones had trembled with the coming of the dawn, and even when the light was only a fringe of brightness on the edge of the clouds, he could feel it. 

The sunlight flittered about on the edge of his awareness and Adojan opened his eyes. It took several heartbeats for him to catch a glimpse of the light, slitting determinedly through the thick smoke, turning it from black to a very dark, velvety grey. He floated higher and sensed the end of the confining stone walls around him. Cautiously Adojan flew forward and made his way out of the sooty cloud. Clearer air pulsed against his wings and he drew the wind into his nostrils. 

The Hylden slowly got his bearings and looked upon the Ancients Haven. He caught a thermal and allowed it to carry him slowly upwards, as he took in the sight of the archaic structure.

Haven had been carved out of the mountain on which it sat. A towering monolith of carved stone, untouched by the wind and rain, despite the countless centuries it had existed, it stuck out in the mountain range, painfully different from the peaks clustered about it. But the stone carvings upon the walls were spells. Resistant to erosion, there was magic embedded in the very rock, and you knew Haven was there, you would never see it. 

Adojan looked upon his home for the first time in eons, dazedly taking in the smooth column of stone, the countless balconies lining each level, and every graceful arch that separated the doors and windows. His gaze strayed longingly over the highest two levels, which were open to the air on every side, and the dome of Haven, which retained its white statue of an Ancient standing above the Pillars of Nosgoth, wielding the Soul Reaver.

Even at this distance, he could see it clearly. Adojan looked down at his soot-covered skin. He brushed at it, uncovering ivory flesh that so resembled the statue. Suddenly he felt aware, once again, of his leathery wings as they beat at the air, supporting him; his changed state. He had no right to enter there... not now. He was no longer part of the Ancient race- but the complete opposite. He could make no claim to the comfort and safety Haven offered, even in its diminished state. Yet... was his former home any more than he now was? Was it not also a ruin? Adojan's eyes stung slightly and he looked upon the edifice with a critical eye. The structure had no inhabitants, no lights shone behind the panes of glass, no ebony-winged residents made their way through the air between balconies.

Haven was the only surviving relic of a faded civilization, a ruined shell of its former glory. It would remain in this place, empty, preserved by spells, until the end of Nosgoth. Adojan made up his mind and moved forward, flying for the aerie. He was still several yards away when the wind sprang up, pushing him away from the mountain retreat. 

Adojan fought it, surprised at his native element's sudden rebellion. It buffeted him, a gale force storm of air that tossed him about, as if it wanted to keep him away from his goal. He continued his battle with the wind, fighting for every inch that still lay between him and the safety of Haven, each one coming only with monumental effort. 

The Hylden commander grunted with the strain of keeping himself upright and flying in the correct direction, his eyes narrowed against the current. His muscles screamed with effort, pain flashing along his limbs, and for what? His progress was so minimal that he almost seemed to be hanging in midair. No space lost, but nor was any gained. 

Adojan growled in frustration, opened his eyes a bit. Was this the Gods' will? Would They consider his intrusion on Haven a sin? Or was this the will of another? The one who would see his spirit broken to its purpose. 

The question spurred him on, his wings pushing. Adojan screamed in fury, tapping unused reservoirs of strength in order to make his way towards Haven. He moved forward slowly, one hand span, another... another. 

The winds grew, his loincloth and insignia scarves whipped painfully against his skin. Metal; thin, light and sharp tore a gash in his chest, and a longer one in his leg. His shoulder plate was followed in its descent by the other, as well as the leather ties that had held them on. He was almost there; almost in the outside hallway of the Lower Arena and out of the winds. 

He panted, not for need of air, but from the pain and stress the wind put upon his wings. So close, he was, but his strength was failing. He could feel it drain out of his limbs. Adojan let out a howl, long and wordless, venting the anger of his thwarted will. One hand reached out, a talon almost touching one of the marble columns. He closed his eyes again, mind begging for a single touch, a moment of connection with his past.

The wind blew him to the side suddenly and back. Adojan scrambled through the air, attempting to right himself, his inner voice screaming in rage. Unexpectedly- it was answered, by a sound, a single, almost inaudible word-

_Onward..._

Adojan opened his eyes, managed to remain upright in the stormy winds. His eyes darted furtively, searching for the singer. The word rippled towards him from the walls of Haven, an echo from his memory, taking on the three part harmony he remembered from his youth. 

_Onward, onward-_

His teeth shut, a growl trickling from between them with the effort it took to push forward. The echo continued-

_marching soldier,_

Another hand span. His mind cleared slowly as the echoing words gained in volume.

_You grow brave as the winds grow colder,_

He placed his hands slowly behind his back, wings fighting the wind, and summoned a spell to his palms. The song sounded almost scolding, admonishing him for not taking this action sooner. 

_The time has come for you to act bolder,_

Adojan forced his remaining strength into the spell. His wings failed as he cast bolts of force into the air behind him, the strength of the spell's release pushing his body forward.

The Hylden Commander collapsed through the spells that shielded the Lower Arena hallway from the wind, and fell to his knees, then his stomach, on the stone floor, the sudden absence of resistance a shock on his bare skin. He noticed dazedly that the wind had taken, not only his armor, but the soot on his skin and every strip of cloth that had adorned his body. Adojan lay full-length on the floor, exhausted, waited for his strength to come trickling back. The echo fell into his mind like a blessing-

_Onward, marching soldier..._

When the world righted again, Vorador opened his eyes to darkness. He moved his hand from Kain's shoulder and looked about. He could see quite well in the dark, but there was no need. The white-haired vampire loosed a bit of magic which caught fire in the air and floated above them; a fuzzy greenish-white sphere. The ancient vampire didn't comment, only blinked a few times and peered at the revealed surroundings.

A staircase of black stone, warm and dry, wide enough for three people, and pitch black. Kain moved forward cautiously, putting his weight gingerly on each step, as if he expected the stones to be loose. Vorador moved beside him in the same conscientious manner, and spoke calmly, almost in a whisper, as if the corridor demanded silence.

"Where are we?" he asked.

Kain responded in the same way; quietly nonchalant. "Beneath the ruins of the Sarafan Stronghold."

Vorador smirked slightly. "The _Ruins_?"

Kain moved on, ignoring Vorador's comment. Vorador made a soft sound of annoyance. The pale vampire gave him little information about the future, other than the fact that they were in it. He hoped that this informant they were going to see, whomever he was, would be a little more forthcoming with his knowledge.

After descending in silence for a time, the two came to an area where the ceiling had collapsed. Without words, Kain moved to the pile of stone and began shifting it. Just as silently, Vorador assisted him. Pebbles clattered noisily down the stairs, and before long they had cleared enough space to crawl into the next section. Vorador went second, pulling himself over the stone as Kain renewed the light spell with a negligent wave of his hand.

The steps below were cracked, with shards broken away in some places, and the vampires' steps were even more careful than before. A set of double doors came into view as they neared the bottom. The Father of Vampires looked with interest upon doors that hung open slightly; the once well kept and polished wood that was now cracked along the grain, and the iron hinges that showed signs of age. Kain moved slowly, almost reverently forward, and pulled open the doors.

He moved a few steps into the room and stopped for seemingly no reason at all. Vorador followed, his eye ridges rising at the scene laid before them. Deep, oddly shaped alcoves lined the walls, bundles of a reddish-brown substance took up the space inside. Was it- whatever it was- that color naturally, or had it too been stained by the blood that lay splattered across the floor stones? 

It was all over, splashed over the pieces of stone and mortar that lay strewn across the floor. Vines lay half in and half out of the alcoves, blood had pooled long ago underneath them, and lay in odd arcs on the ground, thick and black in some places, dark red in others, smeared over the yellow stone. All of the blood had dried long ago; over the walls and the center fountain, and in some places, over the ceiling. 

Vorador knelt and shifted the crumbled stones gently with his talons, looking closely at the fragments. He picked a larger one from the floor and studied it, recognizing that it, and the rest of the stones, were bits and pieces of carvings. The one in his hand was half a face; the tip of a nose, an blankly staring eye- the edge of a fanged mouth. The other bits of stone had cracked along curved horns, wing bones, limbs. The room resembled a jigsaw puzzle of broken statues. 

Most of the stones lay with the smooth side up, as if the carvings had exploded outward from the wall. The fact was made more grim by color and condition of the stones. They were pale yellow on the carved surface, but the smooth underside was a dark, dull red, stained by old blood. Gobs of dried flesh and viscera clung to the stones, splattered all around the walls and floor, the trails of gore revealing that they too, were a result of some form of explosion. The only explanation Vorador could have offered was that some creature had used the spell Implode several times over upon whatever had existed here- but he did not believe that was the reason for this scene.

There was an enormous fountain in the center, painted, like the rest of the room, in blood and gore. In the basin of the structure, the blood was thicker, but long since dried, dribbling down the demonic fountainheads as if the creatures hadn't cleaned their faces after feeding.

Vorador moved close to one of the alcoves, trailed a talon cautiously down one of the vines that hung out of the wall. It felt brittle, dry. He pulled off the end and held it close, examining the strange sort of plant. Vorador sniffed it gingerly before crushing it in his hand and rubbing the dust between his fingers. He reached further into the alcove and grabbed a vine at the hole in the bottom of the wall. The tendrils were thicker there, more elastic, but by exerting his powerful muscles Vorador pulled the vine free. 

There was a stronger smell to this part of the vine. Vorador closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of the thing, and realized he'd been wrong. This was no plant. It smelled of muscle, tissue and old blood. These were tentacles, perhaps... but not vines. The ancient vampire opened his eyes to the cocoon within the alcove, reached up and gently pulled at the fibrous tentacles. Yellowed bone, stained with red, was revealed. He found an eye socket, cheekbones, a jaw- with pointed canines. Vampires.

Vorador's gaze fell upon the carving in the center of the back wall. The cleanest and most complete bit of the wall was a molding of a winged demon; one of the ancient enemy. He recognized the form from old books and tapestries he'd encountered in Haven, centuries ago. The proud, cold face of the carving was that of the Hylden, as was the body structure. Vorador's eyes narrowed at the wings. It had been a long time, but he was fairly certain that the Hylden of old had _not _possessed wings.

Hylden. He looked over the walls again, eyes narrowed. The entire chamber smelled of sacrifice, but to the Hylden? The broken carvings were mutilated high in the center, from the carving's torso up. The muscled legs were still whole, as were the gracefully curving wings. The Father of Vampires looked suspiciously at the carved wings and reached into the side of the carving, feeling for something he feared to find. He reached in, and as he'd suspected, there were deep alcoves beneath the wings. Vorador worked his talons back slowly, taking care with his progress even though the owner of this body hadn't felt pain in centuries. His talons came in contact with something soft, which gave way when he pulled, and followed his hand out of the alcove. The ancient vampire's face was grim as death as he looked upon it. 

A black feather.

Vorador glanced at Kain, who yet stood near the entrance, statue-like, his gaze locked on the fountain in the center. Vorador tucked the silky plume back into the alcove and schooled his face into a mask of indifference before turning towards Kain. 

He was struck once again by the horror and majesty of the room. Memories returned to him of the Blood Fountains of Nosgoth; fear of the strange voice that echoed through the chamber, and a greater hunger of the life-preserving substance that spouted endlessly from the open mouths mounted on each fountain. He had seen many throughout his journey, but this- the first time Kain had laid eyes upon the fountain, it had been dry, unable to provide nourishment. Looking at it once again, he wondered what gift it might have bestowed, had he been able to taste of the still-flowing blood. 

"The informant is to be found here?" Vorador murmured, a mild thread of disbelief in his tone. Kain blinked and turned. He'd forgotten the other vampire was there. 

"Once upon a time, this chamber was the greatest of the Blood Fountains of Nosgoth," Kain said, turning back to the fountain. He moved forward into its basin, his feet cracking the dried blood in the bottom. "In my youth, I traveled Nosgoth, coming across many such structures. Each spouted an endless supply of blood for any vampire with the means to approach. This one, however, was the source." Kain approached the center, resting a hand on the lowest of the stone demon skulls. 

With a negligent twist of his hand, he ripped the fixture from its molding. He turned, discarding the skull, and glanced at Vorador as the green-skinned vampire joined him in the fountain. Removing the demon's head revealed a hole in the stone beneath. He widened the gap, tearing fragments from the sides of the opening. He broke into the structure as if it were tissue paper, revealing a prune-like, reddish-brown object within. 

Kain remembered the Mass, and destroying it millennia ago, with the poison of his own blood. This thing, crafted by the same beings, at the instruction of the same mastermind, was similar, but infinitely more simple. 

"This is called the Siphon," Kain said, moving aside to allow Vorador a better look. "The organ within the fountain is its heart," he looked around the room, "the tentacles are veins, drawing the life of the sacrifices to supply the fountain and any who drink of it with blood. Corresponding hearts were laid within the other fountains, receiving a portion of blood from the original." He refrained from informing Vorador that each of those hearts had withered after he drank from them, releasing black blood that poisoned any vampire who drank from it.

"And who were the poor wretches who fed it?" Vorador murmured, the disgust plain on his face. 

Kain turned and met Vorador's gaze. "Now that you're here, we will both find out." Kain moved around the central block of stone and climbed easily out of the fountain.

They closed distance with the carving on the back wall and stopped. Kain's face betrayed no expression, but Vorador could almost taste his anticipation. The green-skinned vampire wondered again at Kain's reason for bringing him here. The white-haired one had said he wished to help, and he might have indeed... but he also wanted something for himself. Vorador hoped idly that he might find out what it was. Perhaps the knowledge would give him an upper hand. 

"_This_, is the informant," Kain murmured, crossing his arms over his chest. Vorador scrutinized the carving. It was impressive, meticulously detailed. The ancient vampire reached out cautiously and a cloven hand over the stone throat. He closed his eyes, concentrating on senses more intuitive than sight. There was a flutter of energy beneath his palm, beneath the stone. It was a weak entity, but a live one. It also seemed to be spending that meager amount of energy on keeping itself unnoticed, which explained why he had missed sensing it when he first entered. 

Vorador opened his eyes and looked upon the carving once again. Then the stone moved. The ancient vampire pulled away as the face took on a more normal set, the chin pointing forward instead of tilting up. The eyes opened as the sinewy wings folded down, focusing on him. A quick glance told him that Kain was standing quite still, watching without any signs of amazement. It was quite likely that he'd seen the show before. 

Vorador gave his attention back to the carving and quelled his instinct to flinch as a voice spoke. 

_:An illusion, old one... and a poor one at that. We have not the strength of magic necessary to make stone move as fluid.:_

"Then why do it?" he asked, curious, despite his need of other information.

_:Because we retain our pride...: _the voice murmured. _:Even after losing so much.: _The eyes dipped, then rose to look at Vorador's once again, seeming to study him._ :So this is the vampire Vorador,: _it murmured. The voice was a light, echoing sound that made the chamber shudder; an amalgam of voices speaking in less than perfect unison. The illusionary lips twitched up and the voice spoke again, with a touch of humor. _:Did we not tell you, you would one day resemble us?:_

Vorador felt his eyes widen. "Who are you?" He knew... it was so obvious, but he needed to hear it.

_:We are the last of a lost race. The champions of Nosgoth. Enemies of the Hylden. We are the masters of a dead magic. Our ancestors created the Pillars. We are the Blood of Ages.: _ The voice took on a hint of irony, _:Come, drink from us.:_

Adojan woke to several unfamiliar sensations. There was a soft, filling warmth within him. The stone was hard, but not cold, despite his unclad state. His body was at ease, relaxed. The hatred and heartache he felt had somehow been lessened. More strange, however, was a feeling he couldn't even describe... the sense of being closed in, but not confined. He could leave any time he wished, but he was _wanted _here, welcomed. He couldn't quite describe the feeling in the back of his mind, but it made him feel, frighteningly, like a child again. 

Adojan pushed himself to his hands and knees, then his feet, rising slowly. A quick examination of his body revealed that his wounds had closed. He looked around cautiously and reached out to the wall. The vampire hybrid ran gentle talons over the intricate, swirling carvings that ran along the stone from floor to ceiling. Adojan trailed his hand over them, moving towards an archway. He walked into the corridor between the first and second walls of the lower arena, painfully aware of his own footsteps as they echoed down the hall. Passing through another arch, he turned eager eyes upon the room within.

The audience chamber was round, as were the hallways and rooms above and far below it. Cushioned seats circled a dais at the low center and circled up to the level upon which Adojan stood. Gazing down at the seats, he could almost see the last meeting to have occurred there. A specter from times past, the Wisdom Keeper spoke intently to the audience of fledglings before her. He moved on swiftly as the vision faded, descending the staircase to the Common Arena. From that empty expanse he moved down another staircase and into the corridors. 

Adojan wandered through hallways and into various rooms, examining the chests and closets, each with carefully closed doors; possessions folded neatly in their places. It was as if the owners were on a holiday from which they would return, instead of being centuries dead and buried. 

He turned the halls, only half conscious of where he was going. His mind wandered a familiar path which his feet followed. Eventually Adojan came to an ornately carved wooden door, on the center of it, a gracefully lettered picture of the Pillar of Balance. 

He raised a cloven hand to the doorknob and slowly opened the portal. Eyes blurring, he took in the sight of hand-carved chairs and tables which sat in exactly the same place as they had centuries ago. 

The Hylden moved through the main chamber to one of the far doors. Opening it, he ignored the tender memories that sprang up at the sight of his old rooms and, as if it were something he had done every day of the last hundred years, pulled a pair of trousers from a clothing shelf. A sense of vulnerability closed on him unexpectedly and he pulled them on, and tied the dark, braded belt closed. He flipped open a small wooden box on the table and froze. His hand shook gently, talons closing over the single piece of jewelry that lay within. He drew it out and examined the amulet as if for the first time. 

The amulet was gold. Only as wide as the widest part of one talon, the surface was covered, front and back, in runes. Adojan rubbed his thumb over the front and felt more than saw the raised Caduceus in the center. He eyed it almost distrustfully for a moment before looping the thin, gold chain over his head and allowing the medallion to settle on his chest.

He sighed a bit at the familiar weight and reentered the main room of the chambers. Luminous green eyes scanned the walls and stopped on a certain chair. Adojan moved towards it, unfolding his wings slightly, turned, and carefully lowered himself into it. 

The golden wood was low-backed, as were most chairs in Haven, but this had been constructed so that it leaned back, and a long wooden plank stretched between the shoulder blades, topped with a headrest. It was much more comfortable than it looked, Adojan discovered, as he sank back into the chair's embrace.

The horns curling about his head creased the buckskin cushion, sinking deeply enough for his scalp to touch the pillow. His talons curled loosely about the edge of the arm rests, wings drooping as he moved his feet to a small wooden stool, placed there for that specific purpose. Adojan relaxed into the chair... his father's chair. 

"I'm home," he whispered to the quiet room. No sound returned, but the sense of peace descended upon him, and he identified, finally, the sensation that had so disturbed him. 

It was a feeling of being protected that closed in on a person who knew there was no safety in the world. The sensation made him feel weak, helpless, yet he craved the sense of love and belonging that came with it. Adojan breathed out in a sob, and covering his eyes with one hand, the Hylden Commander wept.

As the voice began a retelling of its history, Vorador's mind wandered. He knew most of the story, and after learning the former identities attached to the skeletons residing within the walls, he had reasoned out the missing details. Thought to be dead for centuries- here they were; his friends, companions- the beings with whom he'd grown from a fledgling to an adult vampire, and they were dead in truth. Dead and entombed for millennia. 

He worried the ring Kain had returned to him, rubbing it between his thumb and finger; the same ring that lay somewhere within his bedchamber, aged by centuries yet looking exactly the same as its younger form. He remembered every word of the note that had been attached to it the last time it had returned.

_I know now why you gifted the ring to me and not Zofia, Vorador. Your fate lies along another path... I cannot summon you to share ours any more than she would have. I am sorry for that, but not very much. _

Good luck, my friend,

Lorant 

_:He told me of that later on...: _The carving's eyes were still fixed on both Kain and Vorador, and the amalgam of voices whispered on the air, a sound that both the vampires heard- yet here was another thread of words for him alone.

_:What?: _he responded, using the whisper.

_:After Lorant tied your ring and his message to that bird, he told me why you had given him the ring, and why he sent it back to you.:_

Vorador had schooled his face into a mask of nonchalance. The ancient vampire's mental voice wasn't so guarded against emotion. _:Zofia?:_

:Brother,: she greeted him softly.

__

:What happened here?: He faltered for a moment, his heart beating oddly in his chest at the sound. Despite the circumstances, his wild emotions, and the current state of their forms- it was his sister's voice, and Vorador almost shed tears of joy in hearing it again. _:The bodies... _your _bodies, destroyed- but the voice of that creature-:_

:'Ages'... or so I call them. We have been here for many, after all.:

Vorador blinked at that and attempted to think of another question he could ask. Zofia began again before he managed one.

_:They placed us here... the demons- after they had derived sufficient amusement from our capture. We were placed within the wall; sealed there, our hearts pierced by the Siphon's veins.: _Her voice was soft, meditative, and not quite sane. 

_:You accepted the deal,: _Vorador realized, voice eerie in its calm. _:The Unspoken offered to save the other Ancients if you gave yourself over and you accepted.:_

:You hadn't realized that by now?: she sounded surprised.

_:I thought that Cili had told the fledglings and they followed you to fight!: _he cried, outraged. _:When Lorant told me they would not allow you to go alone-: _another revelation hit him and Vorador was hard put to keep from revealing his distress. _:My Gods... they followed you. You surrendered to Hash'ak'gik and they followed you into his waiting claws.:_

:Of course _they followed. Do you think they would have fought and died- let their _families _die, rather than surviving in this way?:_

His eyes darted to the bloodied alcoves and back. _:You call this surviving?!: _he screamed at the other voice. 

_:Oh, indeed,: _the voice replied cheerfully. _:My body lives within the wall, and the knowledge of the Ancients lives within my mind,: _her voice dropped to a whisper, _:but where does Zofia live? That is the true riddle, Vorador.:_

The Father of Vampires closed his eyes, denying the spill of tears as the dread they accompanied washed over him. _:If the body is yours- then who does the voice speaking from it belong to?:_

:Our family,: Zofia murmured in a childish sing-song. _:The Siphon destroyed the urns... and only one was left to catch all the blood that spilled out. They came in the door... I went out another... and we all lived forever after.: _The voice grew quiet, and when Vorador thought she had ceased speaking, _:I held the fledglings in a painless sleep for centuries; their minds detached from their bodies, while I stayed awake and endured the pain of the Siphon's touch. The veins advanced far enough into their bodies that- had I reattached their minds, they would have gone mad.: _

She laughed into his stunned mind, laughed at joke that only she understood. Zofia was mad- yet Vorador could hear the truth of her words, and even the most insane of madmen could make sense at times. Still laughing, she continued. _:I killed the Siphon,: _Zofia whispered conspiratorially. _:I destroyed it as the veins ripped my brethren apart from the insides out,: _the chuckling faded, giving way to soft sobbing. _:I could hear them screaming inside and outside. Their souls screamed their way out of this hell and into the next,: _she wept. Vorador stood there, horrified for the first time in centuries- a marble statue for all the emotion he showed. Kain, if he noticed, said nothing.

_:The veins inside me were weaker than the others... I had to be strong enough to finish the spell... and the Siphon let me live.: _ The snicker again. _:The fledglings' minds were so close to my own just then that they fled into my body, and I fled out of it...: _her voice turned innocent- awed, _:I think it was then I went mad, brother... yes... I think it was that exact moment._

:They were so afraid... and in such pain...: the voice lost all emotion. _:I don't feel pain anymore.:_

Vorador's mind cringed in disgust, his face giving no indication of the inner turmoil he felt. _:Why? Why did you surrender to this? You must have known it would be futile. You _had _to have known that your elders would die despite your actions.:_

The voice took on a protesting, petulant tone. _:I did my best. At least we still have a chance at living.:_

:What chance?: he murmured incredulously.

__

Zofia giggled. _:Look- it's the nobleman who usurped the rule of Nosgoth.: _Vorador knew she spoke of Kain and he stilled. _:The Necromancer's child who stole Godhead from the Gods and took it for himself.: _The voice grew excited. _:He found a raven's nest and looked inside- finding nothing but black feathers... and the wisest of the ravens... lying within the nest... her wings broken,: _she murmured sadly. _:He wished their aid, but the wisest said to him- 'the ravens are dead and gone, milord, and not in this time shall you find them,': _Zofia sang.

__

:Why did the nobleman need the ravens?: Vorador asked, playing along. 

__

:Ah,: she breathed, _:the false God had forced corruption upon his kingdom. His children ate and ate and ate of the world until there was nothing left. The Necromancer was poisoned before giving birth to the God, and the God was poisoned before his birth. The world is dying, dying, dying like the ravens died, died, died and only the ravens can bring it back.:_

:But if the ravens are dead- how can they help the God?:

:Shhhhh...: Zofia giggled again. In his mind's eye, Vorador could see her looking around, searching for any who might overhear her next words. _:The wisest of the ravens bid him bring her brother wolf to see her, and she told them to go back and give the flock food and drink of the very Gods- and make them whole again.... And you would do it...: _she murmured to herself, _:you _would _see us given life again... if you could.:_

:What kind of-:

She interrupted him, _:But when they were whole and safe within the wolf's den, do you know what the false God did?: _Zofia rushed on without waiting for an answer. _:When the flock was sleeping, the false God took the wisest of the ravens in his hands and closed his hand upon her beak.: _She was whispering now. _:She could not breathe, and when she was dead, the false God caressed the saddened ravens and dried their tears. The wisest had been weak- expended her power in reviving them,: _she tisked briefly, admonishingly, before continuing,_ :they knew, and it had been unlikely that she would survive the night. The wolf- watching from the shadows, never said a thing, and between them, the wolf and the false God devoured the ravens, one by one... the suspicious ones went first... and quickly... and their brethren followed them when they were no longer of any use...:_

:No... that would never happen,: he growled silently. Vorador bristled in anger at her accusation, forgetting for the moment that he was speaking with an irrational mind. 

_:Wouldn't it?: _she asked, skepticism clear in her tone. _:My _sanity _is gone, Vorador, not my _intelligence_. We would have conflicts of interest, you and I- the you that you are, and the I that I was; should you succeed in freeing us.:_

:I would not kill you for disagreeing with me!:

:You've done it before.: Those words, coldly spoken and completely true, stopped him. _:Fledglings have revolted against you- believing themselves to be more worthy of ruling your race than you. When they were too powerful and too resolved in their views to be cowed, you killed them,: _Zofia whispered harshly into his mind.

Vorador could not console himself with the idea that she was insane, that she did not know the words she spoke- not when they were truth that had caused him many nights of regret and wondering.

_:Think long and hard on that, brother, and if you can say honestly that you will not take my life while I am weak- and nor will you allow Kain to do so-:_

:I know you can see into my mind, sister, so answer yourself_: _he murmured tiredly. _:Would I truly allow him to kill you?:_

_:You are similar to the false God in many ways, wolf,: _she responded.

_:But would I take his action?: _he growled. There was silence for a while and Vorador could sense slight tendrils of power combing through his mind. He quelled the natural impulse to remove them and waited as Zofia analyzed his thoughts. 

Her mental voice giggled once again. _:The false God followed the wolf back to find the ravens... and under the wolf's watchful care, the wisest of the ravens returned to her full strength. The wolf and raven would quarrel long and loudly, but in the end there was peace between them... after all, the raven did not want to rule his den.:_

The multiple voice paused, and as it regained the previous thread of conversation, Vorador realized it was speaking to himself as well as Kain.

_:Hear now the method of our salvation.:_

_:Adojan,: _the voice whispered ominously into his mind. The Hylden's eyes snapped open, suddenly awake. He lay rigidly in the chair, paralyzed by a muscle-clenching fear he hadn't felt in centuries. The Unspoken's voice washed over the Hylden Commander, leaving him weak and shaking, feeling like a child in a completely different manner than before. 

_:Do you defy me, Adojan?:_

He licked his lips quickly, eyes darting from side to side, searching for the toxic shadow that so often accompanied the voice of the Dark Entity. It wasn't there, yet the Demon Lord most certainly was. The warmth of the comfort and protection spells he felt within Haven were underscored by the presence in Adojan's mind. Trying to buy time to think of his mistake, he spoke. 

"Master," the word came out a hoarse whisper, "I have offered no challenge, I exist only to serve you-"

_:Indeed,: _the voice murmured in agreement. The malice thickened from water to blood and the voice continued. _:Yet there you sit, disobeying my orders.:_

Adojan surged out of the chair, barking his wings against the headrest and toppling the piece of furniture in his haste to escape it. "My lord, your Hylden have taken the vampire Turel into custody- surely he is chained to the Pillars at this very moment-"

The Unspoken's voice was lighter, but no less dangerous as it spoke again, amused by his panic. 

_:But you do not _know _this for certain. Your duty is to watch over Nosgoth, and yet you slept as Kain wandered the land unfettered and unthreatened. Even now he moves within the tomb of your former brethren.: _

Adojan flinched at the rebuke in the Dark One's voice. "Master, I-"

_:You will make your way to the tomb and intercept Kain, where you shall kill him.: _Adojan was out of the room and halfway to the Common Arena before he realized something was amiss. The Hylden's pace slowed, then stopped.

"No," he whispered.

_:Adojan-: _

"You've wanted Kain dead for millennia, Master..." Adojan said, almost to himself, "and I refuse to believe you would allow him to remain alive any longer than absolutely necessary."

_:I command you-:_

"If you could have, you already would have done so," he interrupted angrily. "You would have seized my body and flown for the ruins of the Sarafan Keep before I was aware of the problem. You cannot control me here, can you, _Master_?" he asked mockingly, sure of the answer that the Unspoken would never admit. As the silence in the corridor stretched, Adojan's lips curled into a grim smile.

_:Do you defy me?: _Hash'ak'gik whispered.The question held more anger now, more danger, but Adojan's smile only grew.

"Happily," he answered. 

__

:This insubordination will not be tolerated,: the Unspoken informed him, its growling made him feel as if his mind were vibrating in his skull.

Adojan turned and directed his steps back to his former chambers, the growl softened more and more as he traveled deeper into Haven. 

"There is nothing to hurt me that you have not already done," he murmured bitterly, smile fading.

_:Isn't there?: _and the voice faded from Adojan's mind.

===========================================

*grins* Ominous ending, no? 

A special thank you goes to: Ranmyaku and DHA for conversations and email messages which inadvertently reminded me that Zofia was supposed to be insane by now.

And to Crazydragon, because her nagging ( :-p ) helped me get this done quicker.

*blows kisses* Thank you, my buddies!

****

Footnote- (hee hee, I have a footnote) A **Caduceus** (ca-du'ce-us) is the God Mercury's staff, the winged staff with two serpents twined around it; a known symbol of the medical profession. (this definition is an edited version of the one I found in my _Webster's Dictionary_. 

*sighs* Another disclaimer seems to be in order. I don't own Webster's or anything in there. I have to add though, that I feel sorry for poor Mr. Webster, who actually _wrote _the damn thing. 

If you missed the bit of story that tells why this is relevant, I'll remind you. Adojan's amulet is a gold disk with a raised Caduceus on the front, and both sides covered in runes. That is all. ^_^

One last thing ladies & gents- I have a few words left that need to be read. They are these-

I know there's some dismay and maybe some disappointment that I'm only closing in on the _halfway point _of the story, but honestly- there is no way I could, in good conscience, wrap it up quickly. There's too much story still to be told & too many events that still need to happen for me to get to the ending. 

I mean- even though each one is long, this is only the _ninth _chapter. Most lengthy, well-rounded fan fics have at least thirty! In my story you see an involved plot, many relevant characters, surprises, twists, and detailed scenes. You can't _get _that in a shorter story. Not from me, and probably not from many other people. This thing is _novel _length. I'm sorry to dump that revelation on people who expect an ending soon, but that's the simple truth and grousing isn't going to change it.

Lots of people have said they can't wait for the ending. ^_^ If you stick around long enough to read it- you won't be disappointed. 


	12. The Fate of Traitors

Copyright © 2002 by Syvia (Aka Rebecca K. Friedrick). All Rights Reserved.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. Adojan the Hylden, all his past lives, and all of the Ancients except Janos are my brain children. If you want the full list- check out the Who's Who section in the back. ^_^ 

****

Author's Notes:

Syvia- Okay, I lied. Or, if you want to get technical, I didn't lie at the time I _told _the lie, but this chapter has made my words a lie, or rather-

Adojan- The _point_, Syvia?

Syvia- OtherBO2charactersmakeanappearanceinthischapter!

Adojan- Okay.

Syvia- There's also Janos abuse.

Janos- *pouts* 

Adojan- Better you than me, sir.

Janos- *cynical laughter* I've read further. You get yours.

Adojan- *'pity me' look* I know.

Magnus *before the insanity*- ....Curly black hair?

Syvia- *shrugs* I guess I was thinking of a cross between my father & an old classmate of mine?

Magnus- O-kay.

****

Special Thanks: To my beta and the one who lets me jabber endlessly about anything, Ran. ^_^ *hugs* Love ya' lots, hon. :-D

And the other beta, Eso. *hugs* Thank you for battling the confusion of the early morning to give me input & staying up with me to blather about LoK theory. *lol*

Also to Ran & CD for bugging me about getting this done. 

Much love & wishes for a lack of writers block to all of you. ;-p (Thanks to everyone else of the EB for just being around. ^_^)

****

General Apology- The lack of updating for... holy crap, four months.. *whistles* is due to a combination of circumstances. I won't bore you guys with the details. Suffice it to say that I'm finally getting back into the serious fic writing and I'm very happy about that fact. 

To all those who've been waiting, I hope you found some other really good fics to read while you waited, or maybe you forgot about the fic entirely and the wait didn't drive you insane. If that's the case, here's hoping you find this new chapter eventually & you realize that **yes, I am still updating the damn thing**. 

I too know what it's like to wait for an update. You guys who also write fics know that if you were to ask an author about what's a long time to wait for an update, and then ask a reader, the answers would be _very _different. Well this is long by even my standards, but I can finally say that I'm happy with the chapter. ^_^

So here it is.

Oh... one more thing. 

Any person who mentions the fact that this took a long time to be posted, or that the fic is taking a long time to be written, will get a 'Master of the Obvious' award. *threatening look* Don't make me do it, people, you know I will. 

Chapter 10

The Fate of Traitors

__

Nosgoth ~ 254 A.C. ~ The Sickened World

Sympathy for the 'vampire menace', Raziel? he asked himself, glancing at Magnus as he turned the corner. There was something about the fledgling that the Soul Reaver found disturbing. He noted how blank the young vampire seemed, and how he moved with the otherworldly grace of his kind, not thinking about where he was going. Magnus seemed to follow him in a daze, eyes locked upon the floor. 

Without comment they neared a junction in the corridor. The Soul Reaver glanced down each of the possible passageways. "This way," he directed, turning down the leftmost one. The young vampire's steps quickened ever so slightly as he followed.

Raziel examined his motives for helping the other as they moved through the dimly lit hallways. True, it was possible that Magnus could provide information about the outside world, but to what end? Raziel, despite the time he had spent seeking an exit, was proof that escape from the Eternal Prison was unlikely, if not impossible. Yet, seeing the Wardens close in on Magnus, the instinctive defiance and willingness to fight; something within him had snapped. 

There by the door had been a vampire; one who had devotedly fought for Kain and, for some reason, had met his doom because of it. Magnus, in that moment, had reminded Raziel too much of himself for the Soul Reaver to sit idle. Besides... what else had he to do in this place? They entered a room that was open to the water, a few broken columns made stepping stones that one vulnerable to water could traverse. He had no use for them, but they would make it possible for the fledgling to reach the hiding spot he'd carved from the wall. He used the stones this time, showing without words how Magnus was to follow him. Halfway across the water, he turned and jumped to the wall, talons catching in the niches he had made, and climbed up into an alcove near the ceiling.

The fledgling was panting lightly, hands shaking just a bit from exertion by the time he crawled into the ledge. Raziel studied Magnus as he pushed his back against the wall, moving as far as possible from the edge of the stone and the watery landing far below. The vampire's eyes were pale; the blue of Nosgoth's sky in the far past. Magnus' hair was black, and hung down to his shoulders in small, tight curls. Two hundred years old, by the talons on his still-human hands, but certainly no more than that. 

He wore a garment sewn with pads of leather covered by thin plates of metal. It was an armor that was form-fitting, yet pliable enough for easy movement. While not heavy enough to stop a sword thrust, the plates would deflect an idle slash. From what Raziel had seen of the fledgling's movement, Magnus' defensive technique was to dodge any blows that were sent his way. Heavier armor would only slow him down. The dull black finish on his clothing also spoke of stealth. The Soul Reaver was curious to discover just what kind of vampire he had rescued. The 'Sarafan Lord' had called identified Magnus as Kain's Champion, but Raziel had never before heard of _either _of them from Kain.

"Do you require blood?" he heard himself asking. Without looking at him, the fledgling shook his head. 

Magnus sat in a torpid daze, staring at the stones between his feet. His body shied away from the edge of the nook, its fear of water instinctive, taking control while his mind sat bewildered and afraid of the Sarafan Lord's words. Kain was dead. He did not want to believe it, yet, the odious creature had held the Soul Reaver. The blade Kain had never allowed another to touch- the one he had proclaimed time and again would only be parted from him upon the event of his death. Logic dictated then, that his liege was dead- but somehow the idea could not take hold in his mind. Magnus understood the words, but they didn't form a coherent meaning within him. He did not, _could _not, make sense of what he had been told. 

Perhaps if he had seen the body, seen Kain, still and withered before him, he could have accepted, mourned the passing of so great a warrior, so inspiring a leader, and vowed revenge. He had _not _seen the body, however, and the soul within his un-living body would not believe that Kain was dead. Yet logic- but he did not care about logic. Logic did not rule in this place. A place that was larger on the inside than out; one from which there had been no escape, for any known prisoner; one that trapped its prisoners in their own, un-aging bodies. He was one of them now, the unchanging castaways of time. Nosgoth's deviants. For wasn't that what he was, what he _always had been_? 

A fish swimming against the current; one who went against the natural order- who _embodied _the unnatural. He had been a warrior. Now what was he? A prisoner, a captive, a... 

"Who are you?" a voice murmured. So soft, it was, that the words almost seemed to blend with his thoughts, guiding his contemplations down a different path. 

_Who am I? _"Nothing... a failure- certainly a fool," he whispered.

"Who _were _you, then?" the voice asked in a neutral tone.

He had been so many people, all of them dead now. "I was human once," Magnus offered. "A nobleman, and trained from childhood to serve as a soldier, should my country ever go to war."

"When were you born?" 

"Some five decades after the pillars were corrupted," he answered. The voice was soothing to listen to, he mused. By answering the questions put to him, Magnus could avoid thinking of his losses. It was a fair arrangement. "I was perhaps twenty-eight winters when I was turned."

"How?"

"The usual way... a vampire bit me, drained blood and replaced it with his own-"

"No," the voice interrupted gently. "I meant- what were the circumstances?"

"I was recruited to fight for the Sarafan order... what remained of it, at any rate, and it was there, fighting for them, that Lord Kain- in the guise of a human nobleman- took note of the most skilled fighters. We fell on the battlefield, and were revived again as vampires."

"Did you fight for them willingly?" The words came quickly, as if they'd been spoken without thought.

"Those who didn't, died... the Sarafan had various methods of ensuring cooperation; threatening eviction from ancestral homes, the execution of family members... they threatened to throw me into the Eternal Prison when I argued." Magnus chuckled at the irony.

"I meant the vampires..." the voice murmured. "Did you fight willingly for _them_?"

Magnus looked up for the first time, surprised at the question. "Why wouldn't I?" He looked upon the being sitting across from him, curious for the first time in regard to his savior. The creature's twisted body was thin, gnarled, and Magnus found himself thinking of an inexpertly raised vampire he'd seen. 

Kain had believed himself strong and knowledgeable enough to do so, and created, not a whole vampire, but a simple body. The thing could stand, and walk, and speak, but with no mind of its own. Magnus remembered standing there, in horror, as the creature collapsed in upon itself mere minutes after having been raised. The entrails had shriveled, causing the stomach to recede as the skin dried completely and pulled across the muscles. The eyes had crumbled into dust, lips pulled back eerily over pointed teeth, the blank eye-sockets and grinning mouth burned into his memory for all time. Suddenly, the being made him feel nervous.

He returned to the question he'd only half-answered. "I adapted quickly to my new existence. I had always loved battle- now there was more to enjoy. New senses to make use of, greater strength to aid in my sword-work. Talons. A new weapon to use, should I lose the crafted ones."

"You thought nothing of murdering your once kin?" The scarf wound about the lower half of the creature's face never moved. 

Magnus was very certain that he did not wish to see what lay beneath it. "They weren't my race anymore," he answered. He heard the defensive tone in his words and wondered why it was there. Why did he feel answerable to this being? "My master taught us that we were superior, accepted us, loved us... what more did we need to know?"

The being sat for a time, seemed to nod once. "We?" it asked.

"The other vampires my sire raised, near to the time I was made."

"Who were they?"

Magnus shrugged. He shook his head slightly and looked away from the creature's glowing eyes. "Warriors. Past-lives mattered little to us, and we seldom spoke of them. I suppose they were like myself- petty nobles who could boast some skill with a blade, or had the minds for tactical maneuvers."

"What happened then?" the being asked. 

"...Who are you?" Magnus asked, glancing nervously at the creature. The being's head tilted to one side, clumps of ebony hair sliding past blue skin. "I have seen only one other being with cloven hands or feet, and never one like you..."

Smoldering eyes seemed to glance at the floor for a moment, then returned to him. "Answer my questions, and I will answer yours," he offered.

Magnus considered, then nodded. "Five years ago, Lord Kain began his conquest of Nosgoth. Two years into the war, the Sarafan gained a new commander, one that was completely unknown to us. This being had strange powers, and taught them to his troops. Then the battles became more challenging. Our forces no longer cut down the humans like so much wheat- the fighting was more equally matched. The losses began- and the confidence of our army began to wane. Vampires would disappear in the night; either to run from the battles or to change sides..." Magnus' voice grew hard, full of anger. "Vampires serving the Sarafan, betraying their own kind. Sometimes I followed the defectors into the woods and cut them down before they had a chance to give information. Stealth was a new tactic to me, but I leaned quickly, as such is the way of my kind." He sighed, clenched a fist in his curling hair. "We made haste to Meridian, meaning to kill the Sarafan Lord and the traitors in the same battle," he trailed off.

"What went wrong?" the other asked gently.

"I attended a meeting with Kain and my Sire. A last briefing before the attack planned for the next night. Kain left to retire. I spoke with my Sire of the state of the army... what chance we had to win the battle with our forces depleted and the knowledge the traitors had surely given the Sarafan Lord. We had the element of surprise, but not much else...

"Then I left, and as I did, I noticed a vampire slinking off into the surrounding woods. I followed, intent on dispatching him, but as he neared the edge of the forest, another met him, one of those who had betrayed early on-"

_"They plan to attack tomorrow?" Sebastian repeated, stroking his chin._

Faustus chuckled. "An hour after sunset."

Sebastian nodded. "I make no guarantees, Faustus. It will be my Lord's decision, whether or not you join us."

"The Sarafan Lord will come to know my loyalty is absolute," Faustus smiled, giving a mock-bow. Hidden in the brush, Magnus' lip curled and he shifted his balance, planning to rush out and rend both their throats. A tiny branch betrayed him, cracking underneath his booted heel. The two vampires whirled towards the sound, ready to attack.

"No need for alarm," Magnus spoke, moving from the shadows.

"I made my decision in that moment. I would feign betrayal of Lord Kain and, at the first opportunity, kill the Sarafan Lord. I do not know if Sebastian and Faustus believed me, but they brought me before the creature all the same."

"But the Sarafan Lord saw through your ruse," the other murmured.

Magnus smiled a bit, "Not until he saw the sword carving towards his heart. But I failed." His voice dropped to a whisper and he laid a hand on his forehead, despair setting in once again. "I should never have left... if I had stayed perhaps- perhaps I could have been at his side in the battle- taken the blow that felled him. Perhaps Kain would still be alive."

The other gave a soft sound of acknowledgment. "If it is any consolation to you... I would have done the same."

"The end of the tale is this," Magnus indicated the walls around them, sighing. "The bastard killed Kain, took his sword, and entombed me here." 

"I saw that much," the being admitted. "-The Sarafan Lord you spoke of... holding the Soul Reaver." 

The Hylden General, now called the Sarafan Lord by the humans who served him, sat upon the intricately sculpted metal chair that served as his throne and looked in satisfaction over the scene before him. The Great Hall of the Sarafan Keep, which he had made his own. Once the richest mansion of the city, it served well as his headquarters. the room suited him well with its tapestries of Kain defeated and his vampiric horde dying on the cliffs outside Meridian. These works of art were a few of many that hung about the building, and the craftsmen who were responsible had made a small fortune each by their ability to finish them so soon after the war. 

They were the more obvious sign of his dominance. More subtle, but infinitely more pleasing, were the Glyph lights that adorned the walls, the floor, and even his seat. Slim metal wires threaded about the legs and back of the chair, conducting the jade-colored energy. The softly illuminated chair was aesthetically pleasing, but the reason behind it was far more important than image. The Glyph energy warded off vampires, and after his near-wounding by Kain's champion, the Hylden General had no wish to allow a vampire close access to him under any circumstances. This throne made certain that the two under his employ kept their distance. 

He sat calmly and smirked at the court of humans that stood before him. Today he gave rulings over the grievances of Meridian's nobility. It was amusing, he found, that the humans seemed to think they possessed any form control over the city. They had given him power long ago, as the threat of Kain's army had grown and spread across the land. Now that the war was over, he retained control. The humans grumbled and contented themselves with the belief that once the vampire threat had been extinguished for good, he would return the rule of Meridian to them. The more intelligent ones understood that he had crept in at their own urging, and was strong and ambitious enough to keep the city in his grasp, should they try to take it from him. It was unlikely, however, that the humans would attempt any such thing. He controlled the Sarafan, and through them, Meridian.

The complaints he heard today were the same as always; the vampiric threat. Three months after the war, vampires continued to trickle into the city walls- no doubt planning his demise. But as they did so, his Glyph Wrights continued to install energy vents throughout Meridian. Once they were ready, the receptors and various control panels installed, Meridian would be a cage for vampires; and would be hunted down easily by his soldiers. Once the plan was carried through to its final stage, the Sarafan would not be needed. The Glyph energy would consume every vampire where they hid, from the edge of the slums to the waterlogged wharves and beyond. No vampire in Nosgoth would be safe from the Mass's killing touch. 

Not even those vampires under his employ. He smirked lightly as the humans left and a dark shape moved in the shadows. None of their Enemy's foul offspring could be left in Nosgoth. None _deserved _to exist in the first place. This was their world- the Hylden's world, and all who dwelt on Nosgoth would know it before the end. The Sarafan Lord smiled fully, but it went unnoticed. The humans and vampires all dead, all in a single moment. What a magnificent thought.

The humans filed out, the Sarafan guards at the door following at his signal. It was only then that Sebastian emerged from the darkness, followed a moment later by Faustus, and he by the third- the new one.

The armor-clad vampire bowed his head respectfully towards him, Faustus, standing on the left, echoed the gesture.

"My Lord," Sebastian motioned elegantly towards the third vampire, "I present Marcus. He wishes to join your cause." The vampire's words were bland, but a slight smirk graced his lips. The Sarafan Lord looked upon the third vampire, who calmly took a place between the other two. Marcus bowed at the waist without ever breaking contact with the Sarafan Lord's eyes. It was then that he noticed the soft flittering touch along his mind. Inexperienced, but deft, tiny 'fingers' of power curled about his mind, attempting to creep in. The Sarafan Lord closed his eyes briefly in annoyance and waved Marcus closer. Dominance tests. The Hylden had no need of such things. Their Lord simply chose the most powerful and raised them as warriors or commanders as He saw fit. 

The vampire came without fear. Marcus stopped as close as the Glyph energy would allow him, the mockery of priestly vestments he wore swaying gracefully around his body. He wore a faint smirk upon his lips. One that disappeared as if it had never been when he found himself staring at the cruel tip of the Soul Reaver. The Hylden General held perfectly still for a moment, meeting the vampire gaze for gaze. He held the Reaver tightly and marveled at the power within his grasp- at a blade which struggled as if to free itself and act of its own will.

"Learn now, vampire, that I am the master here. _Remember _the fact, and you will live in safety from my Glyph Knights and their magic. More importantly, you will live in safety from _mine_." Before Marcus could voice an answer, the Sarafan Lord had pressed the edge of the blade against Marcus' neck. "I have no qualms about slitting undead throats. I have even less to consider when the coat that closes around it has turned. Those who betray are often prone to repeating history." The last statement was directed at all of them.

The bareheaded vampire kept up a brave face, but he strained to keep from showing fear, and the Hylden could see that he ached to pull his neck away from the blade. In response to this, the sword flared brighter, delighting in the vampire's anxiety. "Then you have nothing to fear from _me_, Milord..." Marcus smirked, but his words almost tumbled over each other in his haste to speak. "I never joined Kain's side. He would have had me fight, and die in battle, to be rid of the threat I posed. I refused, so he attempted to kill me with the very sword you now hold to my throat."

"How fortuitous that you survived, Marcus," Sebastian murmured. "Usually if Kain meant to kill someone, especially with _that _blade, they died." It was an accusation, an insinuation that he lied, the Sarafan Lord realized. 

So did Marcus. "Kain beat me over the back with the blade," the bareheaded vampire hissed. His eyes were still on the Sarafan Lord, but his words were for Sebastian. "When he tired of that, he put it away, spat in my bleeding face and left me for dead."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, which Marcus could not see, a silent question about the truth of the vampire's words. The Sarafan Lord nodded once, pretending to be appeased, and withdrew the blade from Marcus' throat. He laid the sword over his legs.

"Tell me what you know about it." The Sarafan Lord watched the three vampires before him. Marcus stepped back. Regaining personal space. The other two advanced on the impressive blade. Sebastian, strongest, physically, of the three, moved forward, his dark cape fluttering slightly with his steps. The armor-clad vampire strode up to the Hylden and looked at the blade critically, eyes narrowed. Faustus came second, stopping a bit behind and to the left of the Marcus. His expression betrayed amusement.

"Tales claim it is possessed," Faustus murmured. The Reaver cast a violet shadow upon his flamboyant garb, changing the red cloth into a shade more like its own. Faustus looked upon the blade with interest, speaking easily, confidently. "Legend holds that the spirit of a monster resides within, and feeds upon the souls of its victims." The young vampire smirked, indicating that he did not believe such stories. 

The Sarafan Lord tightened his grip upon the spiral hilt. The Soul Reaver thrummed in his fist, and from what he felt of the blade, he was almost inclined to believe Faustus. As the vampire had spoken, the Hylden lord almost thought the Reaver had shifted slightly in his grip, as if it were focusing on the fledgling.

"Legend tells true, as it often does, Faustus," Marcus said after a time. The third of the vampires had not made any move to come nearer, nor did he look at the blade, but focused his gaze on one of the rich tapestries that hung behind the Sarafan Lord's seat. "It almost took _my _soul when Kain attempted to kill me."

The quickening of light upon the blade's surface did not go unnoticed by Sebastian _or _his master. The Sarafan Lord ran his palm over the flat of the blade. His proximity to the wicked, twisting edges called up the energy rippling along its ancient surface. A cloud of energy this time, not the bright, hair-thin lines that had already revealed themselves, rose from the blade, congealing around the Sarafan Lord's hand and pulling forcefully on it. Faustus swallowed an oath at the sight, Marcus started, an inscrutable expression on his face.

"And what did it feel like, Marcus?" The Sarafan Lord asked, entranced by the forceful pull of the blade. 

Marcus's eyes reflected the otherworldly light, and he spoke quietly, without the condescending tone that had previously been present in his voice. "Agony," he said. "From a small wound, the blade drains blood as well as one's soul. You feel as if your very 'self' were being ripped from that one small cut. In the taking, the wound would become wider, and wider, until it caused your body to split at the edges and scatter in the wind. It was like being turned; sucked dry from the two small points where vampiric teeth met your flesh." He grimaced his distaste and the vulnerability was gone.

"It hungers," Sebastian murmured, drawing their attention. The Sarafan Lord felt the blade shift, its eagerness at the sound of Marcus' voice dimmed by Sebastian's words. "Once, as Kain fought with the blade, I witnessed the sword leap in his hand- as eager for the victim's throat as its master.

"In a true rage, Kain would put power behind his swings that could cleave a man in two... with the Soul Reaver in his hand, not only would his opponent be ripped in two- but limb from limb." Sebastian regarded the blade with wary curiosity, but it was clear he had no wish to examine the sword more closely. 

"I believe Vorador once said it was the power of the Reaver devouring the victim's soul that did it," Faustus added.

They said nothing as the Sarafan Lord sliced his hand open on the pointed canines adorning the skull hilt. He noticed their quickened breathing, the sudden primal look in their eyes, and smirked. The curse his people had placed upon the first vampires had lost little of its potency from that generation to this. Glorious. 

He let the drops of blood collecting on his hand fall upon the blade and watched with astonishment as the porous midsection of the Reaver absorbed them. He rested his hand just above the surface of the blade, and again the energy reached up to embrace his palm. The sucking pull of the Reaver, like an infant on its mother's breast, increased now that his blood was flowing so easily towards it. The center of the blade, which seemed imperfect, notched with thin, miniscule fissures, seemed to fix tiny seals upon his wound, holding it open and assuring that the blood would not be lost. The Hylden felt a sense of vertigo. He became light-headed as the foundation of his power, his knowledge; his soul, shifted inside him and was pulled towards the blade.

With visible effort, he pulled his hand away from the sword, feeling as if he were ripping a bandage from a particularly snug wound as he did so. He closed his hand, waiting for the speed healing that the Unspoken had imbued upon his kind to take effect. "Interesting," he murmured, holding up the Reaver. "Most interesting."

"Had you not been a fighter in Kain's army," Raziel murmured as Magnus' story came to an end, "you would not be here now." The Soul Reaver leapt up into a small ledge and draped himself on it, one vividly blue leg hanging against the wall.

The fledgling stood easily on the staircase that wound about it and nodded up at him. "I might be dead," Magnus said, considering the idea.

"Better that, perhaps, than trapped in the Eternal Prison." The Soul Reaver noticed how dull, lifeless his voice sounded.

Magnus looked at him curiously. "If those are your feelings, why not take your own life?"

"I tried," Raziel returned calmly. "I failed." There was no shame in either admission- only weariness. "What year was it when you came here?" he asked.

Magnus looked confused at the phrasing of the sentence, then his eyes widened at the implication. Raziel watched as the fledgling realized that, in the time they had spent talking, weeks, months, possibly even years, could have passed. 

Magnus had told him many tales of being a vampire; of being Vorador's progeny and Kain's Champion, as well as all that went with each designation. He even told what elusive stories he could remember of his human life. They had gone to hunt many times during the tales- had evaded the Wardens, and wandered the Eternal Prison. Now Magnus had finally come to the last of his stories, and it dawned on the fledgling how much time might have passed in the outside world during their talks. 

Raziel asked the question again, and waited patiently as the young one searched his mind for the answer. 

"I was... two hundred and six winters when I came here..." Magnus murmured. Raziel was somewhat amused by the phrase. A human might have said years, but as a vampire, Magnus termed his age in relation to the change of seasons, specifically, the coldest, darkest one. 

"Approximately two hundred and fifty years after the collapse of the pillars then, and I have dwelt, for at least one hundred and fifty years of that time, in this place," Raziel murmured. "Not a pleasing thought."

"What of your end of the bargain?" Magnus asked. Raziel did not look down as the other continued. "Who- _what_, are you?"

The Soul Reaver pretended not to have heard. "I would suggest that you find some form of permanent destruction before the Wardens finally gain access to you."

Magnus smiled slightly. "Is that likely to happen while we both fight them?"

_If the Demons see fit to intercede on their behalf, yes, _Raziel said inwardly. "What makes you think I will always be here to aid you?" he murmured.

"You said yourself that you cannot be killed," Magnus answered warily. Raziel finally looked down at the fledgling. Magnus looked worried, and so he should. 

"I have nothing more to gain from you, Magnus. Indeed, should I stay with you, you will be a vulnerability."

"To someone who comes back from nothingness?" the fledgling asked incredulously. "If anyone is vulnerable of the two of us it is I..." his eyes grew wide. "Or is it emotion that frightens you?" Raziel felt his eyes narrowing. Magnus' expression turned triumphant. "You remember your own days as a vampire and you fear those memories."

"What is this babble?" Raziel tried to effect a careless tone.

"Why else would you refuse to tell me who you are?" 

The conversation in Raziel's mind was still turning over the previous statement. Inwardly, he admitted that Magnus was correct, he _did _fear emotion. He had grown attached to the fledgling during their time together. The Wardens would exploit that if possible. Raziel had no wish to see Magnus tortured, yet knew that it was inevitable. He could not protect the young vampire forever.

"Your ferocity in battle and the way you kept the Wardens from me every time... why did you save me from them in the beginning?" Magnus rushed on. "You fear sentiment; fear being responsible for me, yet you must feel something or you would have no qualms about killing me now!" 

Even as Raziel spoke, his mind was guiltily confessing to the accusation. "Your words are impenitent, child...." The Soul Reaver cursed as he realized his mistake. Magnus' eyes grew large and Raziel remembered how often in the past he had heard those words, that very tone, from Kain's lips. 

"You knew him," Magnus whispered. "How? How could you possibly have-"

"How unfortunate for me that I _did _know the arrogant bastard," Raziel spat. "All my reluctance to stay with you, child, is born of my disgust directed at one who could so blindly follow Kain." Raziel sprang down to the staircase and faced Magnus nose to nose. "I have known you before..." he whispered malevolently. "A young, naive, dangerously arrogant vampire; one who gave his loyalty to the undeserving and is now paying the penalty that such unwavering trust warrants." Raziel noticed the slight curl of Magnus' lip and the dark fire in the vampire's gaze. The Soul Reaver began to laugh before he could help himself. He did, however, give the fledgling credit for keeping his next words calm, if undeniably menacing. 

"Is there something about me you find amusing?"

Raziel's answer was mirthful. "I am older than you ever will be, child, and I could destroy you with little effort."

Magnus' expression did not change. "Then you will have what you wanted. I will be out of my misery."

"The Wardens will have you," Raziel murmured soberly. "I cannot stop that, just as I could not stop my own time in the laboratories.... When they take you, they will open your skin. They will remove your organs and divine what they can from your entrails. They will fix upon your body machines which will do only the Dark Gods know what. They will cut you open," Raziel leaned towards Magnus' now haunted eyes, his voice growing softer, "and you will _never _heal.

"Time may pass outside the Eternal Prison, but within, things _remain _as they _are_. The humans from which you've fed were centuries your elders. Their eyes were ripped out- the lids sewn shut, and for the rest of their lives, they felt the pulse of the severed arteries, the throb of skin pierced by needles. Should the Wardens slice into you, _the cuts will remain open_. You will spend whatever time you remain in this place with the pain of your wounds."

With a dry voice Magnus tried to argue. "Wouldn't the blood of humans-" 

"Your body cannot die of starvation. Nor can the humans. I allowed you to hunt simply because it is a form of maintaining normality in this place. The blood you drink carries no nutrition for your body to absorb. It would not avail you."

"But _you _gain strength from-"

"I am a special case," Raziel murmured. "I survive on the essence of other beings, which is the only thing that does not fade in this place." The Soul Reaver turned from Magnus and paced up the stairs, carrying his pain with him. "You were correct... I have no desire to kill you, yet I will not stay and wait for the Wardens to claim you for their experiments. Be wise for once, Magnus, and end your unlife before they begin your torture." 

Perhaps it was some trick of the Hylden, or some torture devised by their master, that forced him to dream as he did. The creature who had once been Janos Audron relived, in the haze of pain that served as sleep in this place, the last few moments before his painful resurrection. He would drift off into unconsciousness, his heavy body unable to bear him or his tortured thoughts, and fall into recollection. 

_Heat- white-hot, eating over his skin to leave him confused and in pain. A shadow fell over his vision, a being that smelled of death drew near and he could feel, as well as hear his heart beating in time with the severed veins and arteries. His body ached, straining to accept the organ, which was held teasingly away from the cavity in his chest. _

"Rise and live again, Janos," a voice hissed. "Rise and fulfill your destiny." Then pain- pain as his body regained the heart, and pain as the tiny seed of malice planted within writhed inside his flesh. He screamed as his chest re-knit, as the same heat as before surged through his veins, and under his voice was another scream- the being who had revived him. Janos looked up through the agony and saw the Soul Reaver protruding through the creature's flesh, the startled, glowing eyes staring down at the tip of the blade. He cried out involuntarily and reached out to touch the being's face.

Then he would wake to other pains. Janos had no fear of the Hylden, or fear that they would succeed in their plans. Kain would kill them eventually. His pain was in the knowledge that they faced these circumstances at all. He should never have been resurrected. 

As he mused, he heard voices.

"General." The breathy, differential voice could only belong to one of his captors, and there was only one creature they called by that title. Janos lay quietly, listening for news. "It has been many years since you honored us with your presence. How goes the war?"

"It has concluded, with our victory," a deeper voice murmured. 

Janos' heart sank at the satisfaction in the words. What did that mean for Vorador? Kain would have survived, he knew, but what of the other vampires? 

"Five years ago we shattered the core of their resistance. The vampire resistance is sealed within Meridian, waiting to be destroyed. The Glyph conduits are being constructed and installed within the city as we speak."

The lower-ranking Hylden expressed his pleasure at the news and assured the Sarafan Lord that the Mass was well, as was their captive, and the Mass grew slowly, but on schedule.

"Well done," the Lord said. "I would inspect the captive by myself." Janos heard the hard, quick footsteps of the worker as he left, and the heavier, deliberate steps of the Hylden General.

Janos levered himself up on his enormous cloven hands, powerful arms raising his bony head, heavily muscled chest and the invasive metal contraption on his back. His legs, tiny sticks of things, acted more as balancing poles more than limbs. They did not give any true support. Were he to lean too heavily upon them, they would break. Lifting his head from the abrasive wire-mesh floor, he turned deeply set eyes upon the intruder. The altered being looked with disgust upon his captor. 

"Hylden," the word trickled in a snarl from his fanged mouth.

"How fare you, Beast?" the Sarafan Lord asked sardonically, emphasizing the designation.

The slight growl sounded again; an unbidden expression of his anger. His oversized talons sank into the floor, closing around the unyielding metal. The Beast, as all his captors called him, rose to his full height and looked menacingly down at the Sarafan Lord. His eyes narrowed at the sight of a familiar sword hilt, peeking over the Hylden's shoulder. The green-eyed being noticed and, smiling, drew the blade. 

"What can you tell me about this?" The Sarafan Lord asked. He stroked a hand along the blade, calling up violet-blue energy that curled almost lovingly around his thin-fingered hand.

The captive looked upon the wraith coiled within the sword, his eyes softening. History would continue as had been predicted, he could see. Kain would destroy the current empire and build his own, which would subsequently be destroyed by its own corruption. Kain would flee backward in time, the Reaver would come to be possessed, and all would progress to this point, and the next, and the next, in the never ending spiral. 

"So long as you wield it," Janos murmured, "your enemies are sure to destroy you." He was gloating just a bit, and by the expression on the Sarafan Lord's face, Janos knew he was aware of it.

"How comforting that fantasy must feel to you." Janos only laughed in response. The Sarafan Lord gritted his teeth. "Your kind lie through their fangs," he snarled.

"And yours are as vile as the dimension in which you dwell," Janos returned heatedly. The Hylden strode calmly up to the force field and caused it to dissipate with a wave of his hand. Janos smirked as best he could. "Did your Master not tell you?" he laughed. "That the blade ripples as a result of the energy inside it is all the proof I need. Kain survived. He will destroy you and build his Empire from the bones of your people."

The Sarafan Lord grunted softly in acknowledgment. Then he kicked at Janos with frightening suddenness, knocking his leg out from under him. Janos collapsed heavily onto the ground, his palms sliding forward, tearing on the broken floor. 

The Hylden planted a foot on his wrist, "When the time comes," he said, pressing the flat of the blade into on his upper arm, "I will delight in viewing your true death." The steady pressure became too much, and Janos' growl reached a higher pitch as his arm broke. He gave a short cry as the Sarafan Lord repeated the treatment more quickly upon his other forelimb. 

Lights danced before his eyes as he lay on the floor, waiting for his bones to began the healing process. Janos breathed deeply, gaining enough control to speak. "What makes you believe you will be alive to see it?" 

The Sarafan Lord's answer was a whistle of air and the wail of the Soul Reaver. Janos roared as the blade cut deeply into the unprotected part of his back, directly between the machine fixtures. He cursed the contraptions that subdued him, fed him the Glyph magic that kept him trapped in this form. They also fed his lifeblood to the Mass. Had only one of these obstacles been removed, he might have had the strength to free himself, but he was weak, and growing weaker with every biting cut the Hylden General inflicted upon him. 

His mind grew dim, and it was only vaguely that he could still feel the abuse heaped upon his back. Then the Sarafan Lord pressed the blade down upon one of the cuts. Janos grunted with disgust as the wraith within the blade reached down and fixed itself into his flesh. The thin, fibrous membrane within the center of the blade drew his blood through the fissures, and the wraith reached down into his body, drawing up his soul as it did so. The Hylden pulled at the sword, which drew him upwards, fixed as it was on his back. When it finally ripped from Janos' skin, his pain was spectacular enough to steal the breath he would have used to yell. The Ancient fell, boneless, to the ground.

A cruel hand closed over the bony ridge upon his forehead and jerked backwards, bending his neck painfully. "Now, as much as I would enjoy punishing you for the injustices done me and my kind, I am more interested in the knowledge you possess," the Sarafan Lord purred by his ear. "For millennia, my Lord tells me, it resided in your care. You will tell me all." 

Something stirred within his heart, coiling and flowing through his veins. A feeling of sickness sluiced down his body, heavy and smothering as pitch. The 'other' in his soul rose up and sank its claws into his will. Words rolled from his mouth, devoid of feeling as he obeyed the Sarafan Lord.

"Our sword-smiths forged the Reaver using materials left to us by our greatest warrior- the metal of his armor... his sword... his very flesh and bone. In life he led the 'Angels of War'...."

Raziel once again wondered what year it was, if only for the pleasure of having something to wonder about. It seemed he had not seen Magnus in a long while. Perhaps the Wardens had caught him, or killed him. Perhaps he had thrown himself into one of the indoor rivers or the violet-grey cloudbanks somewhere in the Eternal Prison. Raziel wished the fledgling well, what ever had befallen him. 

Now, alone once again, he could admit that Magnus had been correct. The young vampire's stories had stirred his own memories, not all of them unpleasant, of his youth as Kain's firstborn. Bitter as their alliance had been of late, Raziel could no longer view Kain as the evil force he had once seemed to be. The Soul Reaver could not honestly say whether Kain held his loyalty, little aid that it would gain the vampire Lord in any case.

Raziel thought it odd that he wished for company. Magnus was not his blood, and any impulse to protect the young vampire was foolish. Nothing escaped the Wardens forever. Perhaps it was that Magnus had been the first vampire he had seen that was not mutated or staked since- since his execution. Perhaps it was their similar circumstances. What ever the reason, he missed the vampire's company. 

It might have been pleasant to have company during the decent into madness, someone to say goodbye to when Moebius finally called him forth to become one with the Reaver. 

Raziel wandered aimlessly, unchallenged by both the Wardens and the demons for some time now. Yet he was troubled by his most recent Reaver-induced visions. There had been the usual, cramped confinement. Comfort within the physically tiny and psychologically enormous space that was the Soul Reaver. In this vision, however, he had sensed a soul nearby, and it was not Kain. Kain's spirit he had come to recognize in these memories, the cooperative awareness that kept him drinking deeply of blood and souls from victim after delicious victim. 

No, this was another. Raziel could guess easily that it was the Sarafan Lord. The soul hovered, close, closer than Kain- who had never dared cut his own flesh upon the blade. This soul had partially slipped the boundary of flesh and shared its old, very strange power with him. The touch had been teasing, and repeated many times. Open flesh pressed upon the blade, and when the wraith had barely begun to draw in the soul, it pulled away, denying contact. He screamed within the blade, frustrated and indignant at this strange form of feeding. Moreover, he was starving. No shrieking life-essence to devour- no steaming rush of blood; only this trickle of nourishment. 

Raziel could remember other visions, other times of starvation. He knew there would be centuries between his entrapment and the time when Moebius would- albeit briefly, gift him to William the Just; creating the paradox necessary to change history, and another fifty years before Kain would claim him in Avernus Cathedral. Sipping of this creature's soul only to have it taken away was torture to the wraith blade's psyche. 

The practice had been repeated several times, he knew by the increased sense of hunger in subsequent visions. The wraith blade would reach out when it felt the blood, wrap around the weeping finger and pull the flesh to it's surface, even attempt to cause the hand to close around the edges, to help with the donation. Such reaction to the blood was met with longer periods of starvation. 

When the Reaver seemed to accept the blood calmly, he was given more, and the 'feedings' had smaller gaps of time between them. Such a feeding session was only gentle at the _beginning_. Once the wraith realized it had access to blood, it grew aroused and attacked the hand that fed it. The latest vision had seen the wraith blade coiled angrily, but groggily within the Reaver, as drop after drop of the Sarafan Lord's blood fell upon it. But then other beings had appeared in the room, come close. The blood withdrew, and one of the unfamiliar beings had approached; had come very, very close.

Suddenly the Reaver had sprung at the body. There had been a scream of pain, a wave of blood- the brief but delectable flavor of a soul, and then the reverberation of its impact on the floor. 

The wraith remembered waiting hungrily for quite a long time after that.

Raziel's considerably more rational and analytical mind could see what had happened. The Sarafan Lord, through an indefinite period of time and patience, had attempted to condition the Reaver to obey him. This was not to say that the tactic had worked- far from it, but the Sarafan Lord had another method aside from starving to ensure obedience. The Reaver would have turned and cut upon him quicker than words could be uttered, if not for the magic.

Raziel had felt that as well. When it seemed the Sarafan Lord had given up on conditioning the blade by starving it, he had placed his unwounded fingertips on the sword's surface... then came the pain. Pain like no magic Raziel had ever felt before. The power stabbed deep, coiling up and down the blade and inflicting an agony upon him that was reminiscent of his time in the Abyss. It garnered the submission that the Sarafan Lord wished, and much more quickly. Hence, the blade deferred to that being as it had not to any other. 

Kain had seen the Soul Reaver as a prized weapon. One with fearsome power, but without sentience, and it would be many more centuries before Kain realized who's soul lay within the blade. The Circle members had never used the sword and William would use it only once. 

The Sarafan Lord saw the Reaver for what it truly was; a willful spirit that could be trained, reasoned with, or, when all else failed- tortured into submission and used to further his own ends. Succinctly put, a pawn. Raziel snarled softly. Would ironies never cease?

The Soul Reaver shook his head and paced down the corridor. "I am finding it very difficult to laugh these days, Mortanius," he muttered. 

================================================

Syvia- See? I'm not dead and neither is the fic. ^_^ Please review. 


	13. Unspoken Threat

Copyright © 2002 by Syvia (Aka Rebecca K. Friedrick). All Rights Reserved.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. Adojan the Hylden, all his past lives, and all of the Ancients _except _Janos are my brainchildren. If you want the full list- check out the Who's Who section in the back. ^_^ 

Author's Notes: Hugs and kisses to Ran & Eso for doing the beta dance. 

I'd like to point out something that the wonderful Ranmyaku, (in a roundabout way) made me aware of. Remember the artifacts you could collect from the dark forges in BO1- specifically, implode? For the sake of making the game more grounded in a real world, implode is a spell, not an artifact. There was mention of this in chapter 9, but I didn't fully explain what was up. I called it a spell, not a 'card', or 'artifact'. Those who've seen the fmv's of BO1 know that Vorador possesses this ability (or he had some implode artifacts in his pocket), because we see him use it on one of the circle members. 

As for the other abilities he and Kain possess, well, some of them are taken from what we see in the games and the new information we've been given about _Defiance_, and the rest are just me using my artistic license.

We're coming up on a time shift, people. We'll have this chapter, another of Raz, and then the chapter where those two bits of the story merge. After that there will be less of Kain and Vorador and more of the past events that led up to this point, meaning, back to chapters with Zofia, Cili, Lorant and the still living Ancients. For now, enjoy the chapter. ^_^

Syvia- *to Kain* You've been really close-mouthed about this whole thing so far, haven't you?

Kain-*mild surprise* I have indeed.

Syvia- I appreciate that... considering what a braggart you are. 

Kain- *murderous expression*... If I were more than a fictional character-

Syvia- But you're _not_! *laughing manically*

~...........................................................Chapter 11..........................................................~

~......................................................Unspoken Threat.....................................................~

__

Nosgoth ~ 2012 A. C. ~ The Dying World

Kain found the discourse tiresome. He had been aware of the history of these Ancients and the possible form of their salvation since his reacquisition of the Reaver, yet the Emperor of Nosgoth stood complacently before a millennia-old sculpture, listening to the sprawling history of a forgotten race. The Ancients had seen their demise, imminent in their foolish denial to take lives and had done nothing. What were humans to them, that they would choose to spare the cattle in favor of their own decline? The old ones had been too compassionate, too emotionally weak, despite the awesome mystical power he had seen firsthand of Janos Audron, Kain had not been surprised to see the Ancient fall into the Hylden Gate with no contention. 

He was aware of the faint scent of blood about him. The carnage that must have taken place within this chamber was delicious to contemplate, but far from his mind. While he could still hear the words of the spirit, he paid no attention. Should he feel the need to recall the conversation later, Kain would be able to repeat what had been said, word for word, but it had no bearing on his current thoughts. 

These Ancients had been imprisoned long ago, Janos' heart was the key to their salvation, for the blood contained within would replace that which had been diluted by the Siphon in their veins. To obtain it, they would need to intercept Raziel, as well as the help of the Soul Reaver himself. 

Ghosts, the spirit-wraiths of both humans and vampires, provided mystic energy. It could be transferred, amusingly enough, by an infusion of the blood. He had learned this as a fledgling. 

Kain had not encountered a vampiric wraith until late in the course of his reign over Nosgoth. There had been times during an infrequent trip into the clan territories that the ghost of a powerful vampire would appear to him. He had always found the Reaver blade useful in such occurrences. After the blade's loss, the Spirit Wrack, one of the few spells he still possessed from his years as a fledgling, would do to deter them. The spell stunned them, caused them pain enough that they would turn and seek easier prey. 

It had not surprised him to see the Chronoplast vision that showed his firstborn, the Soul Reaver, offering up Janos' heart to one of the ancient beings. Or afterwards, when the heart's bounty was exhausted, watching the same sky-skinned one latch on to his child's wrist, draining the blood from his magically constructed body just as a vampire would from a human. 

The Wisdom Keeper, as she was called, would need Raziel's blood to power the spell that would cleanse her body, and the bodies of her brethren of the parasitic organism within. Although he foresaw no difficulty in persuading Raziel to aid them, he wondered if it might not be simpler to feed his own blood to the Siphon, as he had the Mass. 

Despite the rift grown between them, Kain had convinced Raziel to follow instructions- first through the engine of his blind perusal of vengeance, and second by supplying logic and enough answers to keep him following the correct path. Kain was not concerned with the task of finding Raziel. His son would arrive in the Sarafan Stronghold, obtain Janos' heart, and make his way back into the ruins of the Ancient's Retreat. Kain would be waiting there when he did. With the Chronoplast chamber at his disposal and the use of his teleportation spell, he had time. He could _make_, time.

Time enough to gain Vorador's trust by obtaining this information. This, 'revelation' of a way to save Nosgoth. He would be trusted more quickly if it seemed to Vorador that they were equally uninformed about these events. He was closer than ever to the edge of the coin... yet the Hylden. 

They had come close to conquering Nosgoth in the past; having somehow opened the gate that sent them from this dimension to the world of demons. In their city at the middle of the ocean they had slowly but surely rebuilt their power, waiting for the time to strike. When the vampire menace- the threat of Kain's own rule, had become present enough in the people's minds, the Hylden General had appeared, nestled himself securely into the role of savior by defeating Kain, and nearly destroyed the vampire entirely. Kain had thought the creature to be the end of Janos Audron. Yet...

_Kain had left the central chamber of the Hylden City and found Vorador... and _Janos.

__

"I saw the Sarafan Lord throw you into the Hylden Gate," Kain said, narrowing his eyes at the Ancient.

"I, myself, do not fully understand what has happened," Janos responded. "At one moment, I was falling through the mists of dimension. In the next, I was here. Someone must have intervened."

"It matters not-" Vorador cut in angrily. He put a hand out against a fallen piece of stone, used it to climb weakly to his feet. "You shall pay for what you have done, Kain."

The younger vampire bared his fangs in a snarl. Vorador had not forgotten about Umah, and now, despite all that had occurred, the old vampire wanted recompense. Another foolish quest for revenge, but Kain remembered what had happened to the objects of the lupine vampire's rage. "You believe you can best me, Vorador? The blood of my enemies has strengthened me, I have reclaimed the Soul Reaver, and I am standing_ without aid._

"My elder you may be, but you are in no position to challenge my power."

"Then perhaps you should kill me now and be done with it, impudent whelp," Vorador growled, his lip curling. 

"I killed Umah," Kain spat. "I admit it as freely now as I did before. I believed that she was one of the Sarafan Lord's Spies- yet even had I known that she was not_, I would have ripped out her throat. She betrayed me by stealing the Nexus Stone- was foolish enough to believe she could destroy the Sarafan Lord herself. She was already dead when I came upon her- I only ended her pain."_

"You have no heart, Kain," Vorador growled. "Or you will_ not, once I tear it from your chest." The older vampire managed to stand on his own and take a few steps forward. Kain raised the Soul Reaver, but did not advance._

"Umah believed that I would destroy the Cabal once I had killed the Sarafan Lord, Vorador. Do not force her prediction to come true." 

The elder vampire seemed to ignore the warning. "You still require soldiers for your army, Kain. But to take over leadership of the Cabal, you must destroy the leader _of the Cabal." Vorador finally managed to straighten and, though he seemed to be in pain, he lowered himself into a battle stance, glaring at the younger vampire._

"I have no desire to fight you, Vorador," Kain murmured, sinking into a half-crouch. He was being honest. Although he did not relish the idea of Vorador possibly standing against him in combat, or leading others to fight against him, he did not particularly wish to fight the elder vampire. Vorador was cunning, and a lethal adversary, even weakened. 

"Nor shall you," Janos' voice was stern, and the Ancient closed his hand over Kain's shoulder. The young vampire flinched and turned his head to look. How had Janos gotten so close to him without his notice? The world shifted before his eyes. Kain's eyes snapped closed as the teleportation spell took hold, and when it ended- he found himself standing in the main hall of Sanctuary, alone.

It was just as well that this Vorador knew nothing of him or the future events that would involve the two of them. The meeting between the ancient vampire and his maker had been abrupt, with no small amount of shock on Vorador's part- and that had been centuries after Janos' second 'death'. Kain did not know whether it would be joy or fear in the meeting between 'father' and 'son' if Raziel succeeded in restoring Janos, but Vorador would take his 'father' home to the manor. There Janos would live until some few centuries later, when Kain came for Vorador's ring. An unknown length of time after that event, Janos would be captured by the Hylden, then released again by Kain. He would spend the rest of his life, as far as Kain knew, in self-imposed exile- until the fateful day near the end of the Clan Purge when he must have emerged from hiding to play savior to the last of the Razielim. 

He did not know how or when Vorador died- but die the first vampire must have, for as Nosgoth decayed, Vorador's children, whose powers had always been more closely tied to the earth than Kain's, had sickened, and eventually lost the power to exist. Dying as if from some strange plague, the other race of vampires in Nosgoth had eventually disappeared, leaving Kain's empire, and the humans who managed to survive under his rule, alone. 

It was through his sons, and their clans, that the Hylden had found a way back into this dimension. This new breed of Razielim were allied with an almost forgotten presence in Nosgoth. The Unspoken spoke with them, and through them- or more notably, through their leader. Somehow the only remaining offspring of his firstborn had evolved and allied with something Kain had thought to be destroyed. Although many ways dissimilar in appearance from the Seer he had met all those centuries ago, Kyran, or 'Adojan', as he called himself, was Hylden. The aim of the creature was obvious- the restoration of his race to Nosgoth. Perhaps boats no longer traveled to the Hylden City, but what did that matter when the Razielim were now possessed of wings? 

His sons, save Raziel, were gone from the world, destroyed by the survivor. Without their Lords, the clans were scattered; mindless beasts with no purpose save to sate their hunger upon the few humans left in the world. They would put up little resistance against a concentrated army. When the Hylden came, they would massacre the remaining vampires and enslave or destroy what was left of the humans.

These new occurrences burned in Kain's soul. So he had been manipulated once again. It was galling to think that after nearly two thousand years he had still fallen short of the independence he had so coveted as a fledgling. He had not cut his strings, not yet. It was the fact that he knew of the puppeteer that gave him an edge. The wires binding him were strong. He did not think, as Raziel seemed to, that he was strong enough to sever them. What he did know was that although the wires were strong, the puppeteer did not always have full control of them. He did not always serve the chaos that sought to destroy Nosgoth. He believed that. He had to. 

If he saw the vampiric Hylden again, he would repeat history deliberately- and rip the wings from the child's back. Adojan would not be allowed the honor of Kain's blood on his delicate talons. Kain would kill him first- before the Unspoken could manifest in the boy's body. This time- _Kain _also had an ally. If Vorador was hampered by the possibility of seeing his master again, it was worth it to have a buffer between himself and his enemies. They needed Vorador alive. The old vampire, like Raziel- played an integral part in the drama of Nosgoth, and this Vorador had been pulled from too early a point in history to be replaced. 

Kain preferred to avoid a confrontation altogether. If Vorador saw that his Sire had been revived in the past- that he could _be _revived, there was no telling whether the ancient vampire would refuse to aid him. Kain did not know whether, given the choice, Vorador would choose to resurrect his father- or his sister. Better to erase Janos' resurrection before it occurred, to pretend such a possibility did not even exist. But Kain would not count on escaping unhindered. His luck had not been so abundant as of late. The most he could do was hope that his enemies were occupied, and that this rather long-winded spirit would soon near the end of its tale. 

Twisting in the air with a sinuous grace that should have been impossible for his ungainly wings, Adojan flew about the Common Arena. Enormous stained-glass windows in each section of the wall cast pale shades of color upon the marble floor. The dim sunlight of Nosgoth only barely pierced the clouds outside, and afterwards, the grand visions depicted in each window. They told a story, as so many icons did. This tale spoke of the Ancients' history. The pictures began with a scene of demons roaming Nosgoth; terrorizing the beings that lived upon it and acting as they wished upon the face of the world. Later, visions of the Ancients themselves, descending from the heavens to combat the demons. The windows progressed to the arrival of the Hylden from their home dimension to Nosgoth, and the war waged between them and the Ancients. Later came the construction of the Pillars and the Hylden's expulsion into the hell dimension ruled by the Ancients' demonic foes. 

Adojan took in none of this as he flew through the shards of color slanting through the windows. With his eyes closed, he could almost imagine himself back into a time when these halls flourished with light and laughter. Voices rose in song and conversation as his people went about their idle business. 

He could remember when time lingered along the years. There had always been business to be taken care of, but it would occur in its own time, in its own way. During his unlife as Kyran, time had stretched unendingly towards the distant horizon. No foreseeable end and no reason to look forward to what lay beyond this day, and the next. The difference was profound between the races. Humanity waited in hope or fear for each new day, wondering if it would be the last they saw. Vampires wasted their time along the years, arrogantly assured that the world should always stay as they had made it, and they would always be there to make certain that it did. The Ancients... they had lived for the changes. To meet them and take the challenges that came with maintaining the balance of the world in all things. 

Yet, for all those changes, Adojan could remember some things that had always remained the same. The old, old dances held in the Common Arena, wings upon air, any who wished to be included could join in- leaping, soaring, leading and following through the wide open space and magicians who flung artificial winds about that were as powerful as the natural article. 

No social connections were acknowledged during the dance. There was no animosity, no deep, soulful love, other than that of the act itself. They danced, and all that was, _was _the dance. 

_He let the wind buoy him upwards and slid easily into the end of the line, twisting, falling, regaining height. He felt a curl of wind born by another's wings, carrying the musky scent of feathers, and swerved out of the way just in time to brush palms with another anonymous brother or sister. They turned as one and flew off in different directions. Adojan turned a somersault in the air and a voice laughed as his dark tail of hair brushed someone's wing._

A pair of fledglings dipped in the air above him and spun about each other before turning to claim other partners and repeating the motion. Two large circles rotated in the center of the room, the inner circle split, dancers alternating as they flew above or below the outer ring, which moved in as the inner formed again on the outside. Adojan took a place on the outer ring and followed around, inward, then up. The cycle repeated. The two circles meshed into one and rotated to the right... then the left... until half of the circle twisted, bending the lines around until they formed a figure eight, A Moebius Strip. The dancers followed each other, flying smoothly above and below each other in a seemingly random pattern where the lines crossed. 

At an unknown signal, the dancer at the cross whirled around once and broke form, flying upwards. Adojan, directly behind this dancer, followed, as did the rest of the Moebius Strip. They flew out of the figure eight, following that structure until all the dancers were free, whereupon they had reformed the circle. When they had, all froze in place for a moment, then allowed themselves to descend. 

_They lighted on the ground as the music ended, laughing, eyes bright and lips smiling. Adojan turned, a smile of contentment on his face, and saw the dancer who had landed next to him._

_Her skin was another variation of the sky blue flesh each of them shared. Golden eyes sparkled in a face that was framed by shining black hair. She smiled at him, lost in the moment. _

When Adojan opened his eyes, for an instant, she was still there, dark wings and vivid blue arms- before the image came closer. Not her- her father.

Adojan froze. He had thought he was alone, and berated himself for such a foolish lapse in attention. He had provoked the Unspoken, and believed that It would simply leave him be? Janos must have been sent to chastise him. The vampire hybrid stilled, his face melting back into an expressionless mask. 

"It has been a long time since this room was used for such a purpose," Janos gave him a solemn, yet wistful glance. 

"Lord Janos," Adojan bowed briefly, eyes never leaving the elder's face. "How pleasant to see you again," he said, voice bland. "What brings you here?"

"I sensed someone and came to look. It has been millennia since any winged beings made use of this place."

"I was not aware of the existence of this structure, much less that you abided here," the hybrid made a small gesture around the room, eye ridges raised in polite interest. 

"I visit now and again, but I no longer dwell in this place," Janos murmured, turning his eyes to one of the windows. His pace slowed and stopped. They stood about ten feet apart. Far enough for comfort. Adojan believed the distance would be sufficient for him to evade most of the spells Janos was capable of. Many of the Ancient's more powerful magicks were transmitted by touch. Adojan did not plan to let Janos come close enough to use one. "It has been a long while since we last saw each other... the Pillars, when you delivered Hash'ak'gik's message; was that not the last time?"

Adojan flinched at the sound of the demon's name, but answered calmly. "Yes, I believe that was it."

"Before that- our last meeting occurred after you had fallen from a cliff, if I recall correctly."

"Indeed." In the back of his mind, Adojan was readying a spell. His talons itched to rise up, cradle the pale flames that were his most familiar magical weapon. He allowed them to run minutely over the fabric of his trousers, a small gesture that would seem like a simple nervous habit. Otherwise, he stood very still.

"That name you used, Kyran... it sounded so familiar." Another small flinch at the sound of his human, and eventually vampiric, name. If Janos noticed, he gave no sign of it. "I knew an 'Adojan' once," the Ancient murmured. He clasped his hands behind his back, pacing slowly to the left, his eyes on the marble floor. "He was a healer, this Adojan. A strange talent for one of my race, perhaps, as our bodies inevitably rebuild themselves- but he could heal minds... as well as bodies. Adojan had the talent to stave off his blood thirst, and allow others to do so as well. He was able to banish poison from the mind and the soul... I suppose such is to be expected from the son of a Balance Guardian."

"I suppose it is," Adojan returned. His pulse pounded in his ears. Here he was, in his former home, before a former mentor, hearing his own past from one who had been there to witness it. It sounded to him as if it had been the life of another, and in a way- it had. He was no longer that person; not really. Why was Janos telling him this? Did he know? Had the Unspoken told him, or had the Ancient simply realized for himself? Could Janos have made the connection simply from the use of his former name?

"Many believed he would be a good match for my daughter." The corner of Janos' lips turned up slightly, the smile was half-hearted at best. "Considering that they were both the children of Guardians, similar in maturity, our people thought it would be an advantageous match- if an unlikely one."

"Why unlikely?"

Janos stopped his slow pacing and turned to look directly at him, a true, if small, smile on his face. "For a very long time, the two disliked each other. My Zofia was headstrong- even reckless, and Adojan was cautious to the point of avoiding even the most unlikely of troubles." He tilted his head slightly to the side. The smile remained. "Astonishing what changes can occur in a few thousand years, is it not?"

_Oh Gods..._ "Sir?" Adojan asked politely, forcing a mildly puzzled expression onto his face. He called the spell like a heat rising from the core of his body, collecting in his palm. His skin grew warm. The fire had not appeared, not yet, but he clasped his hands behind his back, hiding any evidence of the spell.

"So you have found your way home at last, Adojan."

His hands shook ever so slightly, and Adojan remembered in that instant that vampires were capable of feeling nausea.

He hadn't been certain until now, but something in this crumbling era of Nosgoth was making him ill. Vorador assessed the tempestuous roiling of his stomach and subtle ache in his limbs and decided that it was enough to be concerned about only if he stayed for a prolonged period of time. His patience was wearing thin, and the compound voice had not made him aware of any truths he had not previously known. When it seemed that the narrative was winding down, he decided that he had heard enough, and whether Kain was well enough informed or not, he wanted new information.

"Shall we forget the hunt and go straight to the kill?" he asked, turning to the other vampire. "What do you gain from this?"

If the white-haired vampire was surprised, and Vorador doubted he was, Kain hid it well. "'This'?" he repeated.

"You appeared within the Keep just after I killed most of those half-wits they called Pillar Guardians, and upon reaching safety," Vorador's tone took on a sardonic note, "offer to reunite me with my Sire's daughter, my 'sister', as you so sweetly phrased it. To trust you, you offer me my own ring, which I will 'give to you' in my future, your past, and you do this, I can only assume, out of the 'kindness of your heart'." He raised an eye ridge. "You do not strike me as the generous sort, Kain. There must be something that benefits you in this venture."

The other vampire smiled, almost to himself, seeming to enjoy how bluntly the questions had been asked, or perhaps he had anticipated the conversation they were having. Either way, Kain sobered quickly and answered in a business-like tone. "Have you heard tell of the Hylden?"

Vorador tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. "What do _you _know of them?"

"That they battled your sire's race in times long past and were flung into the Demon Dimension for their intrusion into Nosgoth, as well as their crimes against the other races." He paused, adjusting his gauntlets in what looked like a nervous habit. "Now- in this time, I find myself besieged. The Hylden creep into the borders of Nosgoth once again. The Pillars fall without Janos' people to maintain them. The Ancients are the only ones who can keep Nosgoth from being overthrown. I need their help, and to have it, I need _yours_." 

_:All true,: _Zofia added silently. _:Father's presence was the last barrier for the Hylden, and the Demons. Once he died, enemies sought to reopen the Hylden Gate and cross back into Nosgoth. Kain defeated them in his youth, but the damage was already done. Nosgoth has continued to spiral into corruption and decay- you have felt it, even in your own time. The magicks you once controlled, and your children controlled, lose strength. Each new vampire is born weaker than the last.:_

Vorador decided to play coy as he listened to Zofia's explanation. He had a fair idea of why Kain had sought his help, but he asked anyway. As the aged vampire professed his concern for the well being of the Ancients and his reluctance to bring them straight to his time, as well as the convenience of Vorador's swamp to keep the winged-ones hidden, Zofia continued.

_:In this time, none of your children live. Many had been killed by the Sarafan- the strongest slowly lost the strength of magic and will to survive.: _She laughed wildly. _:None could hold their blood in the end.:_

He felt a pang in his heart. No, vampires were not as eternal as they believed themselves to be. Vorador knew this better than anyone.

_:You see Kain- the self-made empire of Nosgoth. He wishes to rule an empire that will last more than one millennia,: _the voice giggled, _:but he cannot hold his throne. It crumbles to dust in his hands. Dust and ashes, and the Hylden creep about his feet, licking up the ashes, waiting for him to grow distracted, weak, when they may finish him off, while the demons laugh from the shadows. He would have us restore the glory of the world, drive off the enemies that all inhabitants of Nosgoth share, and allow him free control of all the riches of a world so cruelly poisoned.:_

:Why does he seek me out?:

Her voice was comically chiding. _:We told him to. _He _seeks your help for all the reasons he said... and perhaps to incite a disagreement between us later, causing us to lose faith in you and look to him for guidance...:_

:Why did you _wish him to seek me?:_

:Because the me that I will be, should you save us... will not know a great deal of Kain. She will make errors in judgment... but with your presence, not as many. Kain plays upon the affection you harbor for those you protect and thinks we will not trust you as you now are.:

:And how true will that last be?:

:Somewhat,: the voice said cheerfully. _:There will be those who did not know you well in life, and those who will be surprised at your transformation. The remedy is in the Soul Reaver, for all know the prophecy, and all will trust he of whom it speaks.:_

:This Soul Reaver, he is Kain's creature?:

:Was._:_

:Wonderful.:

Zofia laughed uproariously. _:Oh, Vorador. At present he belongs to a being more treacherous than Kain can even dream of becoming.:_

"My Lord," he began apologetically, tilting his head, "the Unspoken began addressing me as Adojan when he accelerated my evolution. The name has little meaning for me otherwise."

Janos ignored that. "Even as a vampire, your face, voice- they were familiar to me. Hearing you speak the old name in Kain's presence allowed the last piece to fall into place." His gaze was tender upon Adojan's face as he raised a hand, perhaps to touch the hybrid's cheek. "My almost-son," he whispered.

Adojan started at the other's proximity. How had he allowed Janos to come so close to him? The vampire hybrid's face was openly frightened as he backed away and raised his hand. His right palm was curled down near his hip, lit with flame, the other up at an arms length towards Janos, in an attempt to ward the elder away. "Keep your distance, milord," he breathed, voice shaking.

Janos remained where he was, holding out his arms as if to show he was not a threat. "The spells around this building recognize their former inhabitants, Adojan, it is the only reason you were allowed to enter. As unlike yourself as you now look, just as those spells did- I recognize the one standing before me."

"You may, as we have met a few times before. I certainly know of you, after all." Adojan responded, regaining control of himself. "But I fail to understand what your little story has to do with me."

"Do you no longer trust your own kind, Adojan?" He sounded so melancholy that it pained the hybrid to listen to him. Janos might have been sincere for all that Adojan knew, but that did not mean he could be trusted. 

He pretended to misunderstand the question. "I have angered my master, and it is very likely that the Unspoken has cut my ties to the other Hylden." Janos' jaw tightened at the name of his people's nemesis, but he did not speak. "They would kill me at the slightest provocation."

"This incarnation is nothing," the Ancient said, waving away Adojan's answer. "Your current physical form is nothing when compared with the tie your soul continues to have with our people."

He laughed cynically. "The only tie my soul has to anything is this wretched body. A connection that is faulty at best, what with Death snatching at it every moment that I remain on Nosgoth. You flatter me to equate my existence with one such as yourself, milord, but if I may be so bold- do I _look _like one of your kind?"

Janos smirked. Adojan's soul drew back in fear at the triumph contained in such a tiny smile. "Ah yes, even as a child you were talented at evading questions you did not wish to answer. No," he continued in the most piercing tones of irony Adojan had ever heard, "you are not one of my people. You simply _found _your way to the chambers of the first Balance Guardian; Sebestyen. On a whim you adorned the garb of a past life and, it is only for your amusement that you wear the pendant of one of my people, who once bore your name. 

"But even were each of those statements true, your dance, as strange and breaking from tradition as it was, came so very close to the movements of the original that no creature on Nosgoth, save one with prior knowledge of such rituals, could have done so well. You knew too much to have created it from your mind. Deny if you wish- but you _are _that child of the past, and we both know it."

Adojan chuckled, shook his head ruefully. The vampiric Hylden sighed, his wings drooping along with his shoulders. Adojan allowed the spell to fade, the fire lowering as if it had been drawn back into his hand until it disappeared. 

"It would be so much easier if you were to simply admit who you are right now."

"What I am? What is the purpose of this, Janos?" he asked. Adojan could not see the Ancient's smile, a tiny reaction to the unmasked pain in the hybrid's voice. "Some twisted little game the demon concocted to punish me? My heritage has been an unending source of amusement for it, and the source of an endless number of snide comments." Janos was about to speak, but Adojan looked up at him. "_I_, am a _freak_," he spat the last word. Then he smiled cordially, "...and you?" The elder only looked at him, waiting. "I am the mutation of a vampire. Once upon a time I was the soul of an Ancient housed in the body of a human being. I retain memories from all of those lives, and the disgust I should feel as a former human at being one of Kain's brood is made obsolete by my disgust as a former _Ancient _at what I _now am_; an insult to three races. The Unspoken laughs at all of us- all I have been, all that is. He promises domination to the Hylden and laughs in their faces as they fail to achieve it. He laughs at vampires; the race that has both thwarted and advanced his cause of destruction for so long. He laughs at your race- my old race... his oldest enemies, through us. _Both _of us, and his control of us.

"I know he controls you, Janos. Even as he controls me. I admit it. I know who I was- but I am not that Adojan who resided here millennia ago- just as you are not the Janos who waited centuries for my vampiric sire to take up his burden of the Reaver."

The azure-skinned being cast a shrewd look at him. "No... you are not the same. The Adojan I knew was more gentle than you are, self-sacrificing." Janos bared his teeth at the young vampire. "He did not _whine _as you do."

Adojan bristled at the insult, wings flaring. "The Janos Audron _I _knew was of a kinder disposition than the being I see before me. He did not have such an exulted view of his place in the universe. You shame your children with what you have become."

"What do you know of them?" Janos chuckled. "Zofia went mad not long after I returned from the dead, and Vorador welcomed the new me into his home with open arms. At present Zofia is still mad and Vorador is dead. Neither is in any position to feel anything towards me."

"Mad..."

"You hadn't realized? Her body was preserved among the corpses of your brothers and sisters, her sanity lost to time."

Emerald eyes burned with Adojan's fury, "If she's alive-"

Janos looked oddly rueful as he spoke. "Why did I not free her? You believe such a thing would be kindness? Her spirit has disconnected from her body- her consciousness replaced by an echo of your brethren. Zofia could not safely return to her body without the forcible removal of the other minds. Zofia has existed in such close union with them that the ensuing solitude would drive her even _deeper _into madness."

Adojan swallowed the growing horror in his chest. "Why not end her suffering?"

Janos smirked cruelly. "Kill her, do you mean?" The hybrid visibly flinched. "Commit the merciful act, as she did for you? Zofia yet has a part to play in this little drama. _She _is not selfish enough to ask for death, simply in the interest of avoiding pain."

"A fine sentiment," Adojan returned, "when she is in no state to tell you differently. Were you to see her and hear her ask for death- would you give it?" Janos stilled, and Adojan knew he had finally struck a nerve.

"She has her task... and so have you."

"What task would that be?" Suspicion drowned out anger and Adojan tensed as Janos moved forward once again.

"You will find yourself, before very long, in a position to help save or damn the world. You will have time for only one shot, Adojan. Use it well... aim for her heart." The golden eyes slid closed for a moment, then caught him again, burning in their intensity. Janos seemed to struggle with himself before speaking again. "Remember that. _Aim for the heart_."

Before the hybrid could respond, he realized that Janos had once again lulled him into a state of false tranquility. Less than an arm's length away, the Ancient was close- _far _too close. They both froze for a moment. Adojan lurched backward, not fast enough. Janos caught his arm just below the shoulder, wrapped his taloned fingers around it hard enough to almost break the skin. The other hand clutched the back of Adojan's head, just beneath his left horn. 

"Now go- greet Kain and your former brother." Power erupted from Janos' palms, flowing over Adojan like water over a pebble. The wave crashed over his mind and he tumbled through space as the teleportation spell flung him halfway across the continent.

__

Vorador opened his mouth to answer Kain's last comment, when Zofia gasped. The lupine vampire sensed it a moment later. A familiar presence, not familiar because of who it was, but rather _what_. _:Vorador... beware.: _Zofia's voice was a trembling whisper in his mind. _:He comes... and unspoken horror travels within him... he is not as you once knew him.: _She seemed to subside abruptly, the fear being replaced by anticipation. _:Be wary...: _then her whispery mental voice cackled, ending in a whimpering little sigh. 

"What is it?" Kain asked, looking towards the staircase, where Vorador had directed his eyes.

"Someone comes," he replied. A brief, unacknowledged fear crossed over the pale-haired vampire's eyes before it disappeared and Kain grimly drew the Reaver. 

"Vorador," a voice emerged from the darkness beyond the threshold, "well, brother, look at you. Is it not astonishing, the changes that occur over a millennia?"

The ancient vampire had a moment to wonder why the voice sounded so familiar, then Zofia breathed a name into his mind, her voice so filled with longing that his own heart clenched.

"Adojan?" he asked, more of her than of the figure in the doorway. Vorador pondered the aura signature that flickered in and out of his awareness from beyond that threshold, but for no more than a second. He flinched as a sphere of flame, two small, blue-violet spheres of pure force, and a fork of lightning flew from Kain's hands to the owner of the voice. They exploded in bright flashes and clouds of oddly colored smoke. Then there was silence.

Vorador blinked the afterimage of lightning out of his sight, and seemingly at the most inopportune time, Kain's light spell faded and died. When a soft blue shimmer of energy emerged from the doorway, he almost thought it was an aftereffect of one of the spells, before the figure beneath it stepped forward. He looked, and saw a strange looking vampire hidden underneath a bell-shaped magic structure. The glow faded, but the air around the being still retained a sort of 'stretched' look to it, as if he were looking at the figure from behind a curved pane of glass.

"Masterful attempt, Kain," the being sneered. It threw up its own sphere of light and spread its arms, looking as if it were giving the old vampire a free shot at his chest. "Care to try another?" The last word was punctuated by a current of electricity surging from the vampire lord's hands as he did just that. The glassy shield and blue glow sprang up once again, deflecting the bolts to one of the tattered corpses within the wall. 

The spell form faded again, but with the light, Vorador could now see a faint outline remain in the air where the scenery was distorted by the shield. 

Adojan was examining the tips of his talons. "A useful little spell, don't you think? I quite enjoy it." He looked up at Kain from narrowed eyes. "A pity you lost the trick of such magic as the world advanced in decay."

So that was the familiar aura he had sensed. Vorador recognized the shield as the repel skill. Some of his children were able to erect barriers of force between them and their enemies. It worked for magic as well as sword, and although it was difficult to cast spells while concentrating on maintaining the shield, physical assault was still a useful weapon. It was also one of the simplest spells to master and control. Vorador no longer bothered with it, as strong as he was, but in this era... vampires had lost the ability to use it? If they had, why did Adojan have one about him? Then Vorador noticed the medallion hanging about the vampire's neck. The Adojan from long ago had never been seen without it, and it seemed his reincarnation continued to wear it. 

He did not doubt what his senses claimed. He had lost his father, learned the whereabouts of his sister, seen the end of his world and come face to face with a negative image of one of his old acquaintances, by and large, Adojan was the _least _difficult of these things to accept. 

"How can a Hylden know anything of the Ancients' magic?" Kain asked scornfully.

Adojan smiled. "Oh, very good. Turn Vorador against me by giving only half-truths about my existence." He walked towards the carving. Calmly Vorador moved away, keeping distance between them. Kain also moved towards the side of the room. The vampiric Hylden stepped up to the unbroken sculpture, which had receded into dormancy. He put his hand out, stroked along the shield in a gesture of longing. He mimed touching the stone face. "What are you here, my love? Have you even the use of a body anymore?" But the carving was silent, as were the voices.

"Touching," Kain drawled. "But if you plan on killing me, Hylden, I would call for an end to the pleasantries."

"A testy deity," the other made a chiding noise. "One of the most dangerous things in the world. How unfortunate you are not one, Kain."

"I'm close enough to divinity that the line blurs. You'll learn that as you watch your lifeblood flow out of your body, and into mine."

"Promises promises," he whispered. Adojan turned to Vorador, "And you? Have you nothing to say to your almost-kin, brother?"

"Forgive me for not quite recognizing you, Adojan," he replied courteously. "You appear somewhat different than you once did."

"Multiple rebirths and accelerated periods of evolution will do that to a man... as you know," Adojan inclined his head briefly to the elder vampire. 

"So you've met," Kain murmured in an oddly pleasant tone, as if they'd all been Nosgothian nobility meeting at a banquet, instead of three vampires standing in a tomb beneath the fading earth. 

"Yes," Adojan murmured. "Vorador knew me as a child." Then he once again ignored Kain and turned all his attention to the lupine vampire. "The darker powers of Nosgoth have a _refined _sense of humor, you see. One that makes a human Pillar of Balance into a vampire," he held Vorador's gaze and jerked his chin at Kain, "the wisest being in the world into a madwoman," he ran his thin talons over the stone carving, "and an Ancient," he looked at his white hand, still resting on the stone, "into a Hylden."

Adojan tensed and simultaneously all of them realized the hybrid had forgotten to renew his shield. Kain acted a split second before Adojan, and cast lighting bolts full into the young one's face. The Hybrid's glowing eyes burned. The words he spoke to recast he spell were lost in the crack of lightning. 

The shield reappeared- a second after the spell hit his chest and flung him into the wall below the carving, dislodging a few small fragments of stone from the broken niche beside it. The Hylden gasped in a parody of breathing and gave a croaking, wheezing laugh. "Oh, well done, Adojan," he berated himself, "astonishing powers of concentration." He staggered to his feet within the shield. The pale skin of his chest, red and raw, charred black in the center, began to mend. 

"What is this?" Kain demanded imperiously. "The last time we met, you became your master's mouthpiece and vowed my death, now you wish to talk?"

"People in this world are rarely what they seem, and I am no exception," he said, brushing off his dark trousers. "At first glance, I may seem to be a vampiric form of Hylden, one created by a son of Kain and evolved into this form, for the express purpose of killing _you_," he threw a pointed look at Kain before turning to Vorador. "Look a little deeper, and I am actually an Ancient, reborn as human, and implemented in a plan to increase the pressure upon a certain vampire lord; to cause him to make a vital, possibly _fatal_, mistake."

"What are you _now_?" Vorador muttered. 

Adojan looked at him. "A rebel, who barely has a knife to his name, fighting a warrior who stands with the power of a legion at his call."

Janos stood in the gloom of the Common Arena alone. All had their parts to play regarding the fate of Nosgoth. Yet... Adojan's words came echoing back, tormenting him. Ashamed of what he had become. The Ancient wondered if Vorador, at any point in history, would have understood. His son had not understood the centuries of seemingly meaningless sacrifice, the pain and torment which was all for a greater cause, and one, the results of which, Janos knew he would never see. 

Dark lips skimmed back in a snarl, baring his fangs. Janos clenched his fists. Ashamed of _him_? Vorador had done no more in his life than hide away in his manor and watch as his children died on the Sarafan's blades and from their cruel magic. He could have done something; attempted to fight back, to _make _the Sarafan cease their crusade... he had not. 

_He _needed _to hide and wait. Who else would have killed Malek in Kain's defense? _Janos laughed silently at the more forgiving side of himself. Vorador had killed Malek out of his own lust for vengeance and eagerness to finish what he had started so long ago. _But what of the Cabal? Was that not evidence of sacrifice? Had Vorador not felt the pains of his fledglings for centuries as they risked themselves to destroy the Hylden?_ It was not quite the same. 

The decline of their people, the sacrifice of their children to the Blood Fountains, the foreseen destruction of the human Circle of Nine; all parts of the puzzle. Even further back, the creation of the Pillars to imprison the Hylden, the construction of the Chronoplast and its smaller components, the Reaver fonts, all in the service of correcting a mistake. The original mistake...

But the Pillars- the Pillars were the key. _Or rather, the lock-, for the Reaver is the _key_, _Janos smirked. It was a dangerous game they had begun with the construction of the pillars; deliberately creating weaknesses in the powers of the world. A weakness through which the demons could slip into Nosgoth, and control, at least in part, aspects of the Pillars themselves. Like a demonic cancer, the demons spread to the furthest corners of their world, ravaging what ever lay in their path.

The Pillars were a source of great power, but just as great a liability, yet the choice to create them had set a plan in motion which had the greatest chance of success, and so it was that proposal that he and his brethren had put into operation so many centuries ago. The action that continued even now that all hope seemed lost. Were the Pillars to fall completely, the demons would eventually crush Nosgoth in their talons, still, Janos continued.

It had taken several turns of the wheel to come even this far. Janos knew of three drastic changes in the time stream; one had occurred at Kain's assassination of William the Just, another during a deceptively simple meeting between Kain and Raziel not long after Kain's human birth. The third had taken place shortly after Janos' own death, after Raziel had nearly been drained by the Reaver blade... his own soul. There would be others, if their carefully planned countermeasure was to succeed. 

Jergo had foreseen all of this. Janos wondered how it could have been possible. How long had the original Pillar of Time sat, searching through the streams of time for the possibilities which, out of the millions upon millions, would bring their people back into their rightful place as the overseers of Nosgoth? How many undesirable ends, how many deaths and births and rebirths had he seen with those tortured eyes? Had Jergo seen _this_? Had he seen what the Reaver Guardian would become? It was likely. 

Janos wondered whether he should be enraged or grateful at not having been warned. Such a long time in planning, and should they fail, the Hylden would be waiting on the other side to claim what was left of the dying world his people had thrown them out of so long ago. The Hylden had set a trap, but the Ancients had known about it. Janos' lip curled in a cruel sneer. So their enemy had thought to gain the advantage. The only one they'd ever had was the element of surprise, before the Ancients had realized how beauty could hide such ugliness. The war had lasted two centuries. Not very long for beings who lived to see mountain ranges rise and fall before the end of childhood. 

A sudden pain flared in Janos' palm and burned across the Reaver Guardian's cloven hand. He looked down and watched as his skin closed, dark blood drying upon his palm. He had clenched his hand so tightly that his own talons had cut him. The corner of Janos' mind that had defended Vorador sorrowed, wondering when he had become so hard-hearted. Unconsciously his right hand drifted to the long, jagged scar on the left side of his chest, and the pulse that lay still and silent in his body. 

Vorador. His son would not have understood. Janos remembered his child's effort to save all the vampires he could during Moebius' crusade, ending in his own death. However, the vampire had known his sire was but moments away, ready to bring back him at the first opportunity. Vorador had neither feared nor cared for death at the time, only the stupidity of the humans watching and the indignity of being slain like some common animal, his head cut off by some fool at a lever instead of a warrior who had bested him in combat.

__

Vorador knelt before the guillotine, his head ringed by the bloodstained wood. Janos could see that he sneered at the humans who cheered his approaching death. Kain, the fledgling, stood in confusion and horror before the platform, unable to understand how this mindless, unwashed mass of humans had managed to capture the Father of all Vampires. Vorador suddenly caught Kain's eye and smiled ironically. 

Janos could hear the whisper as clearly as if Vorador were speaking aloud, never mind that the message might have been meant to be private. :You understand now, do you not, Kain?: _he _Whispered_. _:They are worth _nothing_.: 

_"Cattle!" he shouted at them, laughing. "Even now you understand nothing of a vampire's resilience!" Moebius signaled to the executioner. The hooded man pulled a lever, releasing the blade-_

Not even at the true end had Vorador worn an expression of shame- confusion, disbelief, but not shame. The senses that made Janos aware of his vampiric son told him that Vorador was young in this body. Kain would have enlisted the help of the Vorador who had recently been responsible for the death of the human Circle, the most accessible of the time and also the vampire who had not yet come in contact with Kain as a fledgling. This Vorador had not seen him revived as yet, had not seen his Sire changed, how expendable everyone had become to him.

Janos shook his head angrily. _Vorador was spared a slow death caused by the decline of the land, and the conflicts that would have arisen had his children and those of Kain come to blows. _At _some _point in history, despite Vorador's apathetic views, he and Kain would have been forced into a conflict that Vorador could not be allowed to win. With Vorador in Nosgoth, too many events could have changed. Janos had known what he had to do.

_"I have no desire to fight you, Vorador," Kain murmured, sinking into a half-crouch. _

"Nor shall you," Janos' voice was stern, and the Ancient raised his hand towards Kain. He sent the young vampire to Sanctuary, the halls of the vampire community within Meridian would be the safest place, even more so now that the Sarafan Lord was gone and none of the vampires knew what had befallen Umah. They had no reason to suspect Kain's treachery. Nor will they_, Janos thought to himself, watching as his son's meager display of strength gave out, leaving Vorador slumped and trembling on the ground. _

"Whelp..." the lupine vampire rasped. "The ivory-skinned little bastard trots about as if he were lord and master of all Nosgoth."

"One day," Janos murmured, moving to Vorador's side, "he will be."

The younger of them snorted. "Gods help us all when that day comes." Janos gave his son an arm up, allowing Vorador to pull himself to his feet, using his sire as a crutch. 

"His Rule is necessary for the Gods' final purpose."

Vorador raised an eye ridge at that, "As you say, Sire."

Janos smiled a bit, "Ah, Vorador." He sighed softly. "If things were as I say, none of our children would have to die." Then the soft, rippling power in his hand swept through his skin and into the greenish flesh at the back of Vorador's neck. 

It raced into Vorador's body, severing the ties between soul and body and casting the former adrift. The first vampire gasped at the intrusion, collapsed into his sire's arms. The expression on his face was one of shock as his soul, the core of his being and the source of his power, simply drifted from his body. There was no pain, no sound, just a very brief struggle as Vorador attempted to psychically hold on to it, but he was too weak. The moss-colored talons clenched and unclenched, the eyes darkened, and he was gone. 

Janos laid the body on the pale stones, closed the sightless eyes. He looked up to the bright, yellow-orange sphere now hovering above him. "I am sorry," he whispered. The Ancient could not have said whether he apologized for the death he had just caused, or for the one at the beginning, which had started Vorador's entire melancholy unlife. Then, just as he had over twenty-five centuries ago, Janos clasped the soul with his own, before sending it on its way to the Infinite Calm. Afterwards, he stood, walked away... and without looking back, cast the ritual fires upon the body, burning what was left of his first child in sapphire flame.

Always it had been Janos who turned his eyes away and cast the purifying flame upon Vorador's slowly graying body. _Perhaps if enough events can be changed to suit_, Janos mused, I _will be the one to move on, leaving my mortal flesh to the fire. _Then the Ancient sighed, closed his eyes, and disappeared in the glow of cerulean energy.

__

:He comes!: Vorador was hard put not to wince when Zofia shrieked in his ear, and continued to speak in the same high, terrified voice. _:He comes. He comes _now_.:_

:Who?: She would not answer him. _:Who comes!?: _he shouted at her.

They all sensed it. Kain had gone still and cold, staring at the doorway and moving closer towards the wall, trying to gain a position that would allow him to keep Adojan in his peripheral vision.

Adojan was a marble statue, all movement ceased that of his wings, which.... Vorador blinked and stared at him, eyes narrowed. Were they quivering?

The ancient vampire wondered what they felt that he had not, when he realized the sense of sickness in his body had grown more acute. Something was moving closer, and whatever it was, he dreaded the thought of having it anywhere near him.

"You have been too long among elder vampires, Adojan," a voice emerged from the doorway. "You are enamored of the sound of your own voice." Everyone froze.

A little voice gibbered in the back of Vorador's mind. The thin, high-pitched litany sounded like some form of denial. It was Zofia. 

He imagined if she had been standing in the room, the Ancient would have had her hands clasped over her ears as she shook her head wildly. The tumble of words slowed and he could make out two that continued to repeat. _:Not father not father _not _father....: _The voice changed in tone from fearful to angered and back again, many times. Despite her urgency and the conviction with which she spoke, Vorador's eyes strained to take in the owner of the voice, shrouded in shadows beyond the threshold. There was cruelty underlying the words which the lupine vampire had never known the owner of that voice to be capable of. 

The last Ancient stepped into Adojan's spell-light and Vorador felt his heart accelerate, surprised, seized by an unusually childlike sensation for the third time in a matter of days. 

_It had come so suddenly; the absence of Janos' presence within his soul. So sudden, in fact, that the jewel-encrusted goblet at his lips fell to the table, splashing blood onto it and the carpet underneath. A searing pain, as if he'd been stabbed, burned into his body. A fledgling ran to his side, begging to be told what was wrong. Part of his soul began to fade as he crouched on the dining hall floor, wracked with pain, and emptiness took its place. As his body remained in the implacable grip of pain, which pulsed like a new wound, he heard himself tell the fledgling to bring his sword and a human from the pantry. _

Rage consumed him. He knew what had happened as surely as if he'd been there to witness the act. The Sarafan had somehow found a way into Janos' retreat and murdered him. He knelt on the floor, allowing the burning heat of the spiritual wound fuel his rage. They would see their beloved Circle die for this- this... insult _was not strong enough a word. Their murder of the last Ancient was... horrendous, a blasphemy the likes of which had not been seen for over a thousand years. _

A neck, vibrating with tension appeared almost magically in the field of his vision. The small incision made upon pale flesh ignited his need to hunt. Vorador reached out almost hesitantly and grasped the bound man by his shoulders. The ancient vampire drew forward as if in a trance, baring his fangs to the intoxicating liquid. His ears twitched as he noticed the human was speaking under his breath, a sort of prayer. He stilled and the words became clear to his superhuman hearing. 

"...our safety and salvation.... Holy circle, protectors of Nosgoth, watch over my life, cradle my soul when it leaves my body, for you are our balance, and the life of all the world; our safety and salvation.... Holy circle, protectors of Nosgoth-"

It was not until the words cut off that Vorador realized his claws were digging into the human's flesh. The man was making a slight gasping noise; opening and closing his mouth slightly like a landed fish. Vorador moved a hand to the man's chin, clasping it tightly, he turned the human's head to meet his gaze. 

"Finish it," he commanded in a low growl. The human cringed, whimpering in pain. His voice went even lower. "Finish. It."

The human shuddered, his eyes sliding shut. "... watch over my life, cradle my soul when it has left my body- for you are our balance, and the life of all the world-" with a savage twist, Vorador ripped the man's head from his shoulders. He let the body fall, called the blood through the air to his open mouth. He stood, looking down at the body, and to the fearfully waiting vampire in the corner he said, "My sword?"

He held out a blood-spattered hand and the sheathed Bone Sword slapped into it. He closed his fingers about the crosspiece and strode purposefully out of the room.

His chest still burned from the spiritual wound. It had not dissipated with the arrival of this being who sounded so like his maker. Despite this, his soul was ready to reach out; to search for comfort from the other. Janos looked at him as he emerged from the shadows, and the feeling grew. 

"My child," Janos voice lost the cruel edge and he looked upon his vampiric son with gentle longing, regret of the pain he could see had been caused by his death. "For me, it has been a very long time since our last meeting."

"And it will be a long time for Vorador yet," Kain said wryly, "as you are not Janos Audron."

The lupine vampire did not respond to Kain, but took his words into account. "How is this possible?" Vorador's crossed arms concealed how closely his hand had strayed to the hilt of the Bone Sword.

"What you felt at my death was a deep pain, a sense of loss- but such will pass, Vorador," Janos said kindly. "I will rise and live again once my heart is restored."

Vorador realized as he spoke next, that his emotions had shut down under the confused jumble of surprise and shock that had assaulted him thus far and he was now acting without the burden of _feeling _what was occurring around him. Briefly, he thanked the Gods for the reprieve. "You will rise _undead_, as we do," he corrected. 

Janos looked slightly wounded. "Would you rather I had remained dead?"

"I would have thought _you'd _prefer it, 'sire'," Vorador said gently. "For longing of your family and the desire to be reunited with them."

He sighed. "Not when I yet have work to do. Work that should not be interrupted." He turned to the silver-haired vampire. "Kain, you naughty dog- enlisting Vorador's help to cripple us here, in the future." Janos' voice had gained a slightly guttural tone, and the golden eyes... Vorador was not certain, but had they darkened to orange? "You cannot strike out at me in any way for which I have not prepared. I will have this world, and not you, nor any that would aid you will deny me. Although-" Vorador's talons slid down Bone Sword's hilt, ready to draw it as Janos turned back to him, "you _were _quite clever in your choice of allies," he said to Kain. "But it was unkind of you to involve him- to cause him all this confusion and pain, which can be so easily forgotten."

His hands shimmered softly, as if they were covered in a sheen of moonlight. "Just a moment of discomfort and all of this will disappear. You see, Kain was right to choose you- one powerful enough to be of use at a time in history when virtually none knew of him, and someone he could easily, considering the alternatives, convince to aid him. Someone who might help him towards even more powerful allies, and most cunningly- someone I will require to take part in later plans. I cannot kill you... but a small change to your memory, and his death... those are well within the sphere of my control."

Zofia's voice was mumbling in his head, urging him to wait, wait for Janos to cast the spell, wait... _:Now!: _

Vorador dove for the floor, rolling and unsheathing the Bone Sword as he did so. The spell Janos had thrown impacted like a fluid upon the stone on which Vorador had been standing. 

Adojan leapt upon Janos' back, pinning the Ancient's wings and ridding him of his sight as he twisted the now red eyes off to the side. But only for a moment. As Vorador stood, torn with indecision whether or not he should save the strange creature who might or _might not _be of aid to him, if Kain had been in a mood not to strike the young one down where he stood.... A small but powerful explosion flung the Hylden from Janos' back and into the wall behind them.

_:Go, Vorador! Go now!: _Zofia begged.

Vorador turned finally, moved towards the doorway, calling to Kain, who had frozen at one side of the room, the Reaver tight in his grasp, his face frozen in anger, fixed upon Janos Audron. The Ancient reached down and swiftly plunged his talons into white flesh. Adojan grunted in pain and clutched uselessly at Janos' wrist. He smirked and took hold of Adojan's left horn, tilting the young vampire's head to the side, the elder's eyes burned red as he exposed the fragile white neck. 

"I find your willfulness most comical; the belief that you can test my will. You thought I could not roam this world except in the vehicle of your body?" the demon whispered from inside Janos. "I have had my talons in _this _one for millennia. He is almost _easier _to control than you. You believed I could not hurt you." He shook his head in cruel humor and _pulled_. Adojan screamed as his vitality was drained by those talons, running up Janos' hand like a backwards waterfall. "You are going to learn just how difficult life can be for an enemy of mine."

Vorador was over the fountain in two jumps and strode quickly to the door... only to have the tip of his sword collide with a barrier of solid air laid over the entrance. His eyes widened as he put a hand against it, pushed with physical and mental force, and got nothing for his pains. He swore softly.

"We are trapped," Kain said grimly, also running a hand over the blocked entrance. Even as he said it, Vorador reached for his teleportation spell, but could not activate it. The earth surrounding them was saturated with dark energy, trapping them within a solid wall of power that was incompatible with Vorador's magic, and although similar to Kain's, it was made to keep them from escaping. This was why, Vorador realized, Kain had caused them to land halfway up the staircase. The energy could not be bypassed. 

"Very well..." he murmured, turning. "Then we fight." Vorador spread his free hand flat, palm up, and what looked like drops of blood collected within his palm, seeping upwards from the skin and coalescing in the air above his hand to make a sphere. The construction was transmitted by touch, as many were, but with his blood as a medium, Vorador could gain added distance for his abilities. As Janos dropped the hybrid to the floor, Vorador curled his fingers about the ball, never actually touching it, and cast it at the creature that was and was not, his sire. Janos turned and waved his hand to the side, the spell shot off in that direction, hitting one of the corpses. The vines collapsed inward, crumbling into dust and revealing the skeleton beneath. 

"_Implode_?" Janos murmured, looking a trifle impressed. Gold eyes flared in anticipation of a battle. "At least you are honest enough to admit that you strike to kill." Then he seemed to dismiss Vorador from his thoughts and turned to Kain. "I believe that sword is mine," he smirked.

"I will be happy to return it to you," Kain answered oh-so-pleasantly. "Would you prefer through the heart... or across the throat?"

The tight-lipped smile Janos used to respond was lost as the Ancient raised a hand and pulled telekinetically on the Reaver. Kain held on, sliding a few feet across the floor, his grip tight on the sword's hilt. The telekinesis drew him on, neither Kain nor Janos' spell letting go, neither seeming fatigued, but Janos' face tightened in annoyance as Kain was dragged at an excruciatingly slow pace across the floor. 

Vorador, backing unobtrusively towards the wall, was not foolish enough to think either of the combatants had forgotten him, but he wondered, some moments, whether the possibility might exist. Would either of them need his help? Were they possibly expecting it? Despite the instinctive desire to help Janos, he would not be going to his sire's aid. Kain, even should his pride to allow him to ask for help, couldn't truly count on Vorador. He had not yet seen a good reason to let either of these vampires live. His sire was the undead and no longer who he had been. However it had happened, Janos was changed, and Vorador could not trust him. Kain had led him to valuable information, but for what purpose, the ancient vampire could not begin to imagine. However... were Janos to win, Vorador's memory of this place would be stripped from him, and any hope of aiding the fledglings lost. 

Having chosen a side, for the time being, the lupine vampire readied a spell. Kain slid closer to Janos and the Ancient bared his teeth. Janos raised his free hand and a fork of lightning had barely left his palm when the putrescence spell Vorador had thrown impacted and extinguished the other. Both spells disappeared, but their collision also broke Janos' concentration. Freed from the spell, Kain crossed the distance between them in four leaping strides, bringing the Reaver above his head in a two-handed grip. He swung viciously downward. 

Janos threw his arm upwards and caught the blade in his cloven hand. A cushion of energy separated his skin from the Reaver's wicked edges, and the blade was caught again. Kain kept a hold of the blade with his right hand and with the other, grabbed Janos' vest. When the Ancient attempted to telepathically knock him away, he was rocked by the blow, but otherwise did not move. Janos began another spell and Kain loosed the old one's vest in favor of grabbing his wrist. The Nosgothic Emperor released the pressure he'd been holding on the unfinished sword thrust. The tip of the blade sawed backwards in Janos' hand and Kain plunged his fist and the Reaver's hilt into the elder's stomach. 

The Ancient grunted, then growled low in his throat. He looked up at Kain with eyes gone blood red and smiled. He flexed his elbow, straightening the trapped, spell-heavy hand, rolled his talons over the back of Kain's wrist, breaking the vampire's grip. Kain used that moment to back swiftly out of Janos' range, tearing the Reaver's hilt ornaments out of the other's stomach. 

Blood stained the somber-colored garment, the flesh beneath it closed slowly as he and Kain began to circle once again. Vorador was torn between spells. As the various forces in his mind attested, Janos was a threat, but- despite the changes in him... it was his _sire_. Perhaps Janos could not be allowed to win this battle, but Vorador did not want to be the one to kill him. He still did not trust Kain... but the two seemed to be well matched. If Kain were to kill Janos, it would not be without sacrifice on his part. The silver-haired vampire would be weakened, vulnerable... Vorador could finish him with little trouble, then dash up the stairs, teleport back to the Chronoplast and leave this gods-forsaken land behind.

_:No!: _Zofia cried sharply in his head. She sounded adamant, but oddly regretful. _:If Kain dies, so does Nosgoth.:_

Vorador did not ask her to explain. There was no time and the truth of the statement made his ears ring. _:What, then, do you suggest I do?: _Her attention shifted to Adojan. Without having to consider, he strode over to the fallen being and knelt at the hybrid's side.

"Vorador," he breathed, "you- you have to get out-" Vorador inwardly applauded his wisdom in speaking. For a being such as Janos, the _whisper _could be more easily overheard, private conversation or not. The vampire wondered briefly how it was that Zofia could speak with him alone and unheard by the others.

"Drink," he told the younger vampire. "You must divert his attention, so that Kain may make his move." He put his unclad arm before Adojan, offering his wrist to the hybrid's mouth.

"Kill him?" Adojan clarified, ignoring the sluggish pulse beneath his nose. "For all the strength of the 'elder vampires', so many of you are squeamish about killing those in your way...." The Hylden bit and drank of him, defiantly holding the lupine vampire's gaze.

Vorador allowed emotion to show in his eyes. The burning hollowness he had felt at Janos' death, the painful sense of loss he refused to contemplate at the thought of losing his sire a second time, and a soul-searing rage at Adojan's pomposity. "Upon the love my sister continues to bear you, and the momentary use I have for you, I will ignore those words," he hissed. "I defy you to speak them again once you find yourself in the same circumstances." He decided Adojan had taken enough blood to stand and took his wrist away from the young vampire, ignoring the shock in his pale face.

Janos threw a blade of force as big as his arm at Kain, who had ignited a trail of blue-green fire upon the Reaver. The silver-haired vampire brought the blade up, the magic upon it shattered the force projectile in two, and the Reaver ceased to glow. From his crouched position, Vorador launched himself at Janos, faster than mortal eyes could see he attacked simultaneously with sword and magic. Janos backed up, evading the spell but taking a deep slash to his right forearm. The Ancient must have sensed Kain closing in behind him, for he cast a shield over his wings and turned, slamming his pinions into the undead emperor before thrusting into the air. Kain struck out with a handful of lightning and Vorador leapt up the fountain, slashing and clawing. They collided in midair. Vorador's weight drove Janos down, but the shield held firm, taking the impact. 

The Ancient grabbed for Vorador as he rolled away. The knife-like talons caught and sheared through cloth, but retained only a tiny scrap of vermilion. Kain moved in again, but Janos made a violent movement with both hands, flinging him over the fountain and into a corner of the room by the door. "Vorador," he said, climbing in a surprisingly graceful movement to his feet, "I am only attempting to do what is best for you."

Vorador's blade never wavered. "As you say, Sire." 

Janos' face contorted in sudden fury. "Do not attempt to placate me as you would a witless fledgling. You have no conception of the trials I have undergone in the struggle to keep this world alive." His body blurred and Vorador found himself pressed up against the wall. A wave of nausea rolled over him at Janos' proximity and his knees buckled. "Now forget what you have learned here and cease to lecture me on things you cannot comprehend." Janos' hand shimmered, but before it could make contact with Vorador's skin, Adojan surged up beside them. He cast a force projectile at the Ancient's chest. It was only strong enough to make Janos stumble back a few paces... into the Reaver blade.

Kain froze in place, kneeling on the stained floor, arms extended in a two-handed thrust, pinning Janos like an insect on a needle. Vorador stumbled, his chest contracting in a smaller, yet more painful, echo of the torment of Janos' first death. He barely heard Kain murmur an apology, but he felt it when the old vampire brutally twisted the sword.

Vorador dropped to his knees, expecting to see blood on the hand that had flown automatically to his chest. He put his other hand on the floor, realizing as he used it to brace himself, that he must have dropped his sword. Vorador managed to look up, at Janos face. The Ancient had somehow turned his head to look at Kain over his drooping wings. He coughed, blood staining his lips, and smiled.

"You _shall _be..." he breathed. Janos turned back, his painful cough almost a laugh, and slid forward, off the blade. 

Vorador reached for him, but Adojan held him back. Even now, he realized, Janos could not be trusted. The vampiric Hylden moved instead, holding Janos off of the blood-spattered floor, cradling him with one arm around the azure shoulders and the other encircling his waist as his wings flared backwards to keep out of the way.

"Sire?" he murmured, still clutching at his chest. Janos' eyes slid open wearily, and the Ancient smiled as they focused upon him. 

Vorador crept a bit closer as he laughed softly, and spoke. "I wished for this... but not in this way...." The air had grown warm at his back, and Janos' slightly unfocused gaze lingered on the empty space over his shoulder. Vorador felt the brush of a ghostly arm over his cheek and he realized that both Janos' children had drawn close, offering comfort at their father's last moments.

Adojan straightened a bit as it touched him, unable to identify the odd summer wind that played over his arms. A tear rolled down Janos' cheek, and he pulled one limp hand to it, pressing his palm to the spectral warmth left by his daughter. The Ancient opened a hand to his vampiric son, and despite the warning in his heart, Vorador took it. 

"Be strong..." he whispered. "Do not be afraid to take up the Reaver, Vorador. A time will come when only you can save us from History...."

They missed Kain's ominous look as Janos slumped in Adojan's arms. The Reaver Guardian closed his eyes. The hand Vorador clasped in his own went slack as his sire exhaled, his misused heart beating one last time.

================================================


	14. Appendix

Copyright © 2002 by Syvia (Aka Rebecca K. Friedrick). All Rights Reserved.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the stuff from LoK. Adojan the Hylden and all of the Ancients except Janos are my brain children. If you want the full list- here it is! ^_^

Author's Notes: **Currently updated to Chapter 11**

****

.........Do NOT read further if you have not read all of the current chapters!.........

I've decided that sometimes the authors' notes are just toooo long to put up before the chapter, so I'll put them here. But what this really is, is a Dictionary, Timeline, and General Authors' Notes space. This section will grow more detailed as we go along, and **will always be the last chapter**. ^_^ **From now on, I will be responding to my reviews here (at the end)**. Please feel free to ask or email any questions you have, and if I can answer them without spoilers, I'll do that here too. ^_^

****

~......................................................Time and Space......................................................~

Here's my method of marking time. Come here any time it gets confusing.

I've divided time into two categories based on the Pillars' destruction. 

B. C. - Before the Corruption

A. C. - After the Corruption

I've divided the world into three categories, based on the state of its collapse.

The Living World - Nosgoth at the beginning of its existence.

The Sickened World - Nosgoth after the birth of Kain.

The Dying World- Nosgoth after the fall of Raziel.

****

...........................................................Time Line..............................................................

What some of you probably realized, but I'll go over it again just to make sure- is that 1649 B.C. occurs _before _500 B.C. The way time is marked is this; B.C. time counts down to 0 which is the year the Pillars were corrupted. After that, A.C. time begins again at one. I'll give you a short timeline- be aware, the A.C. dates are not exact. At this point, not even Kain himself knows quite how old he is. ^_^ (~) means approximately.

1649 B.C. - Evike Audron dies (time frame of chapters 1, 3 and 5)

500 B. C. - Janos Audron is murdered by the Sarafan (time frame of chapters 2 and 4)

0 - Ariel dies, Kain is born, the Pillars are corrupted

30 A. C. - Kain kills the circle

37 A. C. - With the help of Mortanius, Moebius imprisons Raziel (time frame of chapter 6)

48 A. C. - Magnus is born as a human

76 A. C. - At 28 years old, Magnus is turned into a vampire

249 A. C. - Kain begins his conquest of Nosgoth.

251 A. C. - The Sarafan Lord takes the visible role as Leader of Meridian & begins sending out troops to meet Kain's army

254 A. C. - Kain is defeated by the Sarafan Lord, Magnus is thrown into the Eternal Prison (Time frame of chapter 8 and the beginning of 10)

430 A. C. - Kain defeats the Sarafan Lord

513 A. C. - Kain resurrects the Sarafan Generals

1504 A. C. - Raziel is thrown into the abyss, Kyran is the only survivor of the Clan Purge

2012 A. C. - Raziel is reborn as the Soul Reaver, kills the other Lieutenants with the exception of Turel, He and Kain leave this era of Nosgoth for the past. Adojan is ordered to begin his conquest of Nosgoth. (Time frame of chapters 7, 9 and 11)

****

Who's Who?

I'd like to take this time to explain how I came up with all the cool names for my original characters. ^_^ 

I looked up 'Janos Audron' on the net and learned that it was Hungarian. To all those who knew that without any guess work- well... I'm just not as familiar with name orientation as you! ;-p 

After that I went to see what other names I could find that were Hungarian which sounded good or had a relevant meaning. I started choosing them _based _on what they meant and what I wanted out of the character. 

Here are all the ones I've used so far- What they mean, as well as who the person is (but if you don't know already, shame on you!). **This will also be updated as we go along. New information will be added, and by the time we get to the end, there will be lengthy character descriptions of these people. DO NOT read if you have not read all current chapters.**

I may be incorrect on the name pronunciation, and there are a few names where I've tweaked the spelling. ~_^ Be aware.

(**Thank you to Nemi, who filled me in on the meaning of Janos' name *blows kisses***)

****

Ladies

****

Anci~ (An'-cee) Meaning; _Graceful _~The youngest of the three 'Sirens'. An outgoing young Ancient with a soft voice.

****

Angyalka~ (Ang -yall'-ka) Meaning; _Messenger _~The Pillar of the Mind, Jergo's wife, Cili's mother.

****

Aurelia~ (Au -rel'-ee -a) Meaning; _Gold _~One of the fledglings, no real description yet.

****

Cili~ (See'-lee) Meaning; _Blind_ ~Cili is the youngest of her generation, and a Seer. 

****

Evike~ (Eev'-eh -ke) Meaning; _Life _~Evike was the wife of Janos Audron, mother to Zofia. Her magical knowledge included, but was not limited to, the Spectral Realm and properties of souls. 

****

Hajna~ (Ha -ya'-na) Meaning; _Grace _~The second-born girl of the three 'Sirens'. Something of a peacemaker.

****

Ibolya~ (I -bol'-ya) Meaning; _Violet _~The Pillar of Nature

****

Katakin~ (Kat'-a -kin) Meaning; _Pure ~_One of the fledglings, no real description yet.

****

Mara~ (Mar'-ah) Meanings; _Bitter, Grace _~The oldest of the three 'Sirens'. A quiet young Ancient with a sharp tongue. 

****

Treszka~ (Trez'-ka) Meaning; _Reaper _~The Pillar of Death

****

Vicuska~ (Vi-coos'-ka) Meaning; _Life _~The Pillar of Energy

****

Zofia~ (Zo- fi'-ah) Meaning; _Wise _~Zofia is the daughter of Janos and Evike Audron, heart-sister to Vorador. Her talents dwell in the magical realm of combat, not the physical, and she is the newly made Wisdom Keeper.

****

Gentlemen

****

Adojan~ (Ah'-do-jan) {See also; Kyran} Meaning; _Dark _~Adojan was killed as a human at the dawn of Kain's empire and raised by the Vampire Raziel. As a result of Janos Audron's resurrection, he survived the Razielim Purge and has evolved into a creature similar to the Hylden of ancient times. 

****

Janos~ (Yan'-os) Meaning; _Chosen by God_ ~....Um, yeah, you should all already know this! *sighs* The Reaver Guardian, participated in the war against the Hylden when he was young. Was killed by the Sarafan in 500 B. C. and resurrected soon after by an unknown being. Was used to power a machine of the Sarafan Lord's in later centuries, continued his reclusive habits as Kain began his empire; saved Adojan from the Razielim Purge at the instructions of the Elder God.

****

Jergo~ (Yer'-go) Meaning; _Watchful _~The Pillar of Time, Cili's father. 

****

Istvan~ (Ist' -van) Meaning; _Crowned _~The Pillar of States

****

Izsak~ (I' -zak) Meaning; _Laughter_ ~One of the fledglings, no real description yet.

****

Kyran~ (Ki' -ran) Meaning; _Dark_ ~Adojan's human name.

****

Lorant~ (Lor-ant') Meaning; _Victory _~Lorant is one of the younger members of his generation and a talented warrior, if a bit excitable at times. He and Vorador are good friends. 

****

Neci~ (Nee'-cee) Meaning; _Fire _~Neci is the apprentice Weapons-smith. He enjoys imbuing his works with magic spells and is a very capable craftsman.

****

Oszkar~ (Oz' -car) Meaning; _Leaping Warrior _~The Pillar of Dimension

****

Rendor~ (Ren' -door) Meaning; _Peacekeeper _~The Pillar of Conflict

****

Sebestyen~ (Se -best' -yen) Meaning; _Revered _~The Pillar of Balance

****

Births (All in B.C.)

Vorador- 2113

Zofia- 2086

Aurelia-2034

Neci- 1995

Mara, Hajna, Anci- 1989

Lorant- 1963

Katakin-1945

Izsak- 1890

Cili- 1881

****

Deaths 

Evike- 1649

****

The Ancient Guardians

Balance- Sebestyen

Time- Jergo

States- Istvan

Mind-Angyalka

Conflict- Rendor

Nature- Ibolya

Energy-Vicuska

Dimension- Oszkar

Death- Treszka

Reaver- Janos 

****

Special Thanks

I used the Prima strategy guides for BO2 & SR2 for pics of the games and info. 

Blincoln's site; for inspiration given by the cut scenes and dialogue from each of the games (which I also don't own, even though they were cut out *pouts*)

SilverEnigma's site (she has kick-ass pictures of just about _everything_ in her archive, which I looked at while writing.) 

As well as my buddies from the LoK EB, who are still helping me gain new insight into the characters of LoK and giving me new things to think about. *huggles them*

****

Responses to Reviews from the beginning to 9/5 have been archived. :-p

Responses from 12/10/02 to 5/18/03

Lunatic Pandora- I really like the way you think, hon! Thanks for all of those points. Well, as it's told in the preview information in Defiance- they don't stick together. *shrugs* But as for me... I've been thinking for a while that Raz needed to grow up and get a few clues. That's one of the biggest reasons I (er... Moebius) put him in the Eternal Prison.

Thank you! I try to keep them true to the games & make logical assumptions based on LoK dialogue, about their personalities. *lol* You wanted to choke Adojan? *grins* Well, I don't know specifically why, but yeah, I've been told he's kinda annoying. :-D Good. As for Janos and the Hylden... well it's not as if he's doing it _willingly_.

Thank you for the review, hope you liked the new chapter.

****

Concept of a demon- ^_^ I'd be worried if I didn't think you'd use the launcher anyway! Thanks for the review. 

****

Light- Thanks. *sighs* Damn lazy muses. *shakes her head* At least it's up now.

****

Anima Flamma- Thank you and I hope you continue to enjoy it. :-)

****

Angel-Chan- *lol* Poor Raz. Squeeze him extra hard once for me! Thanks for the review. 

****

Tana- Hey there, girlie! ^_^ Heh, I'm either gifted or touched in the head, some days it's hard to tell which. *grins* Alright! Another who's not afraid to read the long fics straight through... when they have enough time.... *hugs* I will, I will, and you're welcome.

****

Guardian of Tears- Thanks for all of that. ^_^ Good question- and here's the answer. You're right- if he could get out, he could very well swim to shore and hightail it outta that time, but he _can't _get out, and all of those indoor pools & rivers in the Prison end in thick metal bars that he can't phase through and can't wear down. He's not strong enough to cut through a large metal bar (as we've seen in the games) and the wardens/demons/reaver will not allow him to spend the time it would take to hew it down. Don't worry about Raz though- he _will _get out eventually. *smirks* In the next chapter, in fact.

*gasps* Oh you! *laughs* Enjoy your sticker!

**Deionarra- **:-D Thank you. *sighs* Yes... and just like Cili, the damn visions won't leave me alone. *shudders at the dreaded Stats work* Oh I hated that class last year. ^_^ Passed it though, and as it's said, 'all's well that ends well'.

****

VladimirsAngel- *hugs* Oi... O_o how long did it take you? *grins* I'm well aware by this time that I'm long-winded. :-D I love every minute of it! *blushes* *lol* He's just annoyed that I keep poking in his head. *Raziel looks pointedly down at Syvia's hand, which is sticking out of his emancipated ribcage.* Oh! How did that get there?! *hides her hands behind her back* Thanks. ^_^

****

MikotoTribal- *grins* I'm glad someone actually likes the jumping. I've had complaints. :-p People who smacked me over the head and said 'GET BACK TO RAZ!' But hey *shrugs* I always do eventually. ^_^ 

****

Five- ............ *sits there in confusion for a bit* You're a very enthusiastic person. ^_^

Okay Five, don't worry- I'm still going. Please, don't search for a new chapter every day, because I'm _not _that proficient with my writing. It's my style to edit several times, and to take a long time going from the written version to a computer document. *shrugs* That is, unfortunately, just the way I write. 

Uh... who's Abe?

But I'm glad you like the fic. Thanks for the review. :-)

****

Responses from 10/19 to 12/9

Angel-chan- You'll get no help from me, Raz! I think you're cuddly too. ^_^ I have to content myself with the plushie version though. *hugs Angel-chan* Thanks for the review, hon.

****

DHA- Ooooh man. *looks around nervously* You better get her some tissues, Suzu, things are gonna get a lot worse before they get better.

****

Mink Biscuit- *sighs* For some reason it couldn't be avoided. And honestly- I think my sister & niece were sapping my creativity. Now that they're gone *sighs* I finally got over my little bout of depression & I'm managing to get on with the fic. Thanks for the review. ^_^

****

Crystarr- *hugs* God bless you for the funny yet complimentary reviews! *thinks* Hmm... a thumb war. Nah. It's too hard to hold a sword with just your thumb... although Kain could probably do it. 

****

Elashana- Thank you! I love doing the unexpected. ^_^ Well, give Zofia a break- she's been imprisoned for longer than _Ariel_ and she had to kill all her buddies to keep them from going crazy too. Not a happy girl. *pouts* *hugs* Thank you! This is exactly what I'm saying!

****

Mink Biscuit- Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you!

****

Bahamut- *lol* Good luck with the operation. I'll certainly be careful and thanks for the party advice- but I'll just go for Moebius myself. ^_^ It's more fun that way. More difficult, to be sure, but more fun in the end. :-D

****

Silveriss- *hugs* You are too kind & I can't get enough of that. ^_^ Hope you liked the latest chapter.

****

GoT- *massive hug* Stop bowing. ^_^ You'll make me blush. I'm glad some people appreciate the long fics- you guys are the readers I'm really looking for anyway! 

MST Stands for (Mystery Science Theater). MST 3000 is a television show where a guy and two robots basically sit in front of a movie theater and make fun of the cheesy B class Sci-Fi movies they're forced to watch. Lots of people used to write them for FF.net, but the admins banned them. (A shame too, I knew a couple that were laugh riots. ^_^)

****

Ilit- *grins* Thank you, everybody.

****

Evelin- *bland look* *walks up and slaps a 'Master of the Obvious' sticker on Evelin's forehead* *walks off*

****

Concept of a Demon- What? Which? *looks round* I'm confused! What rules all?

Continuing now. ^_^ *hopes you feel better*

****

Evelin- 

Zofia- You've been waiting? _I've _been waiting! She slapped me in a wall- you've been sitting around going about your life?! Who's the tragedy case here?!? Me!!! That's who! 

Calm down, hon, you're using multiple exclamation points.

Zofia- *huffing*

*reads the last line* Oh! That does it, Evelin! *runs up and slaps a 'Master of the Obvious' sticker on your shoulder*


End file.
